The Empty Mouse
by Veresna Ussep
Summary: ***Complete***Now that Holmes is back from the dead, the criminals seemed to be stunned into silence, leaving him longing for a case. But when St. Bart's is the target of an attack, Sherlock may find himself regretting that wish. Sherlolly, but may not be what you are expecting. Rated T for the language and violence just to be safe.
1. Chapter 1: A Groggy Night In London

Now that Holmes is back from the dead, the criminals seemed to be stunned into silence, leaving him longing for a case. But when St. Bart's is the target of an attack, Sherlock may find himself regretting that wish. Sherlolly, but may not be what you are expecting. Rated T for the language and violence just to be safe.

Written for entertainment purposes only, no monetary reward for doing so and no copyright infringement intended.

A note on the setting: Written during the long wait between the end of Season Two and the beginning of Season Three. It is meant to be consistent with the canon up to this point, with the proviso that it also assumes:

1) Molly was definitely instrumental in helping to make the arrangements that allowed Sherlock to fake his death (definitely implied in the last episode)

2) Moriarty committed suicide up on the roof of St. Bart's (we've been fooled before, but I'll assume that was really him and that he's really dead)

3) Being presumed dead meant that Sherlock had to hide out at Molly's flat for awhile (just because I like the idea)

4) John and Sherlock moved back into Baker Street together when he reappeared

Finally: If Gatiss and Moffat can call their first episode "The Empty Hearse" to play on the original title for the story showing Sherlock's return ('The Empty House'), I am certainly free to call mine:

_**The Empty Mouse**_

**Chapter one: A Groggy Night In London**

John Watson rubbed his eyes and stared blurrily at his wristwatch.

A quarter past midnight.

Raising his eyes to his flatmate, he cursed under his breath, resenting the fact that he had to wait until Sherlock went to bed to take over his position on the couch.

His own bedroom was currently barricaded from the rest of the flat because three days ago he had found a dead mouse in his room, and he had made the mistake of mentioning it to their landlady, Mrs. Hudson. She had immediately become agitated, insisting that there was 'never just one!' A subsequent hunt throughout the house had failed to flush out another rodent, but Mrs. Hudson had decreed they needed to call the exterminators in at once. Calling in a professional service, they had all been forced to vacate the premises for several hours while the traps were put in place. John's room, as the 'hot spot' of the infection, was so filled with traps that it wasn't even safe for him to walk across the floor. Although he thought it was overkill, he secretly had to admit he didn't relish the thought of mice scampering over him while he slept, so he had willingly vacated his bedroom for now. Unfortunately, he also didn't have a current girlfriend to bunk with at the moment, so he was relegated to the couch until his bedroom was fit for human habitation again.

To make things worse, London had been experiencing a stretch of unusually warm weather lately. While this was bad enough, it was made even more difficult to cope with by the fact that it had also been an unusually long time since they had been presented with an actual case.

After Sherlock's return from the dead, there had been a blizzard of publicity accompanied by a flurry of backlogged cases that had taken awhile to get through while providing at least a modicum of interest for his friend. But then the attention had shifted elsewhere, as it always inevitably did. Now, despite the hot weather, the country seemed inexorably gripped in the midst of a non-crime wave. Instead of being goaded into acts of sheer folly and desperation by the sticky, hot weather, people seemed to be lolling around in a stupor. In fact, it had been several days since anyone had even contacted them about a case. Sherlock had turned down their last prospective client before he got six words out of his mouth, claiming that he was unworthy of his attention. Since then, he was alternating between periods of boredom and anger. He spent most of his time in his pajamas, watching crap television, and John could tell he was depressed by the fact that he hardly even bothered to yell at it anymore, just grunting his disapproval every now and then.

That was exactly what he was doing right now, lying on the couch in his pajamas and glaring at the telly, which he had brought over to that side of the room. John had been ignoring the program, only vaguely aware of the rising and falling voices in the background, but now he sat and listened in for a few moments.

"Isn't that one you've watched already?" he finally said.

A long, drawn-out sigh was his only answer.

Shaking his head, John leaned over to switch on his computer. He had found an interesting chat room earlier in the evening, but it seemed that everyone had signed off for the night by now. Switching over to his blog, he checked quickly for messages, but saw that no one had posted anything new for days. Hardly surprising, he thought, given the fact that it seemed like ages since he had had anything worth writing about. Closing the laptop, he sat back in his chair and sighed as well.

/#/#/

On the other side of town, Detective Inspector Lestrade was also awake. He had first welcomed the lack of new cases as a rare opportunity to catch up on his paperwork. But this evening he had finally caught up with the last of his backlogged cases and was finding that he was also hopelessly bored with the current state of affairs. On top of that, he really would have welcomed something to distract his mind from the fact that the next morning he was due in court, to sign the papers finalizing his divorce settlement. He found his eyes continually drifting downward to study his ring finger, the pale circle marking where his ring had been still clearly accentuated against the darker tan of the rest of his flesh.

Yes, although he should be happy about the current lack of crime he had to admit that he would love a good, distracting case at the moment.

/#/#/

In the lab located next to the St. Bart's morgue, Molly Hooper was sitting at the microscope. For the third time in five minutes, she felt herself suddenly jolt back awake after her head had dipped forward and made contact with the eyepieces.

"It has to be the eight days working in a row," she thought, pushing herself away from the bench. "Especially since I had to put in an unexpected double with Barker calling in because she couldn't get her car started."

She shook her head, trying once again in vain to drive away the nagging feeling of grogginess that was slowly but steadily overtaking her. Just a short while ago, she had felt a rush of energy, but now her eyelids were beginning to droop even though she was actually quite interested in the slide she was perusing. Leaning back towards the scope, she tried again to get through a few more fields, but found it impossible to concentrate.

Pushing away from the microscope again, she glanced back at the clock and groaned.

_Six more hours to go._

Deciding that she needed an infusion of caffeine in order to stay awake, she bent down to open a drawer and took out her purse, picking out enough change to get a cup of coffee from the cafeteria. Throwing her wallet back in, she hesitated for just a moment before picking up her lipstick. It certainly wouldn't hurt to try and look decent as long as she was headed to a public place, she decided. Getting up, she paused at the small mirror that hung on the wall and colored in her lips. Studying her reflection, she found herself smiling despite her tiredness. This new shade actually looked quite nice and was much more complementary to her skin tone that the other ones she had tried.

_With such a nice berry scent as well_, she added, taking in a deep breath.

Then her smile faded as a puzzled frown appeared on her face. Despite the rather heavy scent of the lipstick, she was smelling…something else. Turning around, she sniffed the air, trying to decide what it was and where it was coming from. Despite its slightly familiar odor, she couldn't quite place it. Other than to think:

_I shouldn't be smelling that._

_/#/#/_

Back at Baker Street, John was wrinkling his nose as well. But he was quite sure that it was the smell of rotting food. Gazing around the refrigerator, he noted sadly that for once it was not filled with body parts or other disgusting examples of Sherlock's experiments. But that did not, unfortunately, mean that there was anything edible inside of it at the moment.

/#/#/

Lestrade was gazing at the interior of his refrigerator as well. His was nearly empty, containing only a six pack of beer, a carton of milk and a bunch of grapes. He reached for the grapes, but found his hand veering toward the beer instead at the last moment. Shutting the refrigerator door, he went to sit down in the recliner that served as the only piece of furniture in his living room. Reaching over to shut off the ceiling light, he opened the beer, throwing the cap down on the floor before bringing the bottle up to his lips.

/#/#/

John stuffed the wallet in into his back trouser pocket as he walked into the living room, marveling at the fact that, even at this late hour, the streets were so hot he had no need to put a jacket on before venturing out.

"You, uh, staying up for awhile?" he asked, glancing over at Sherlock.

His arms were crossed mutinously over his chest, and he issued a single monosyllable grunt that John took to be an affirmative answer.

"I'm going to step out to get something to eat," he said.

"Speedy's I presume?"

John hesitated for a moment. He had actually been planning on going out to a pub, but the small restaurant that formed most of the lower floor of their building was trying out new hours staying open until one in the morning for the summer. It would be a lot easier and cooler to go there, he supposed.

"Yeah, think I'll just grab a sandwich and come back," he said finally. "You want anything?

"The remote," he said, holding out his hand.

John sighed and shook his head. It was sitting on the other side of the coffee table, but he supposed it was too much effort for Sherlock to lean over one foot to get it.

"Anything else I can get you?" he asked, as he handed it over.

"An interesting case," Sherlock replied.

Shaking his head, John headed downstairs.

_For my own sanity, I hope we have one soon, _he thought.

/#/#/

Molly stood, staring at the fume hood. The small tin she was looking for was there, right where she remembered leaving it. Reaching in, she grabbed it out and lifted it to her nose. Although the container was safely sealed, she could still make out a bit of its distinctive scent. Holding it away from her, she sniffed the air again.

No, she was definitely smelling it in the air of the lab itself. That was very strange. And potentially deadly. She definitely needed to call someone. Glancing at the phone list, she found herself debating between two numbers.

_No need to unnecessarily alarm the whole hospital yet_, she thought. _Maybe it's just some type of glitch._

Coming to a decision, she picked up the phone and dialed.

/#/#/

Lestrade stared gloomily at the empty bottle. He had drunk half of it in one large gulp and finished off the rest within minutes, and yet he felt even thirstier than before. Setting the empty bottle on the floor beside him, he debated getting up to get another and then decided against it.

_No use showing up at the hearing with liquor on my breath._

Pushing his chair back to the full reclining position, he closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep.

/#/#/

John came out of Speedfy's carrying a sandwich in his hand. As he fit the key into the lock, he glanced up and saw that someone had posted a notice about a lost dog on it, holding it in place using the door knocker as Sherlock had done on occasion. He glanced up at the picture in the dim light for just a moment before tearing it down and transferring it into the same hand as his sandwich in order to open the door.

/#/#/

Hearing footsteps out in the hallway, Molly hastily tossed the x-ray cartridge aside in order to hurry over to the door. As she neared it, she could see a familiar silhouette through the pebbled glass.

"Thank you for coming right away," she said, opening up the door. "I'm sure it's nothing, of course, but-"

The man, with a full gas mask over his face, stepped hastily into the lab and closed the door behind him.

"Well, that's a bit much, isn't it?" she giggled.

In a moment, her smile disappeared as the man shoved her roughly back. She stumbled and fell against the counter. She took a moment to steady herself and then suddenly made a diving move across the narrow passageway, bent on pushing the small panic button located underneath the bench on the opposite side. But the man reached out and grabbed her by the arm, wrenching it back with a force that made her wince and cry out in pain. A collection of items in her lab coat pocket fell onto the ground with a great clatter as he spun her around. Pulling her close, his left arm circled around her body, trapping her arms against her side as he raised his right hand to her face, putting a cloth over her mouth and nose. The same sweet, penetrating odor that already permeated the air pushed its way into her nose in sudden rush, the scent becoming overwhelming. She tried her best not to breathe it in, but her exertions already had her gasping for breath and the man's grip remained firm until she had no choice but to breathe it in. In less than a minute, her eyes closed and her struggles ceased. He kept the cloth up to her face for another half minute or so to make sure she was completely under before taking it away. Lowering her to the floor, he picked her up by the feet and began dragging her toward the morgue door.

/#/#/

As he reached the top of the stairs, John finally realized that there was only a lone light on in the hallway, the rest of the flat was completely dark.

_Great. Well, at least he's in bed finally._

Going into the living room, John pushed the television back to its usual position, and then went to sit down on the couch, intending to eat his sandwich. But by then his eyes had adjusted to the dark and he realized with a start that Sherlock was still lying on the couch, facing towards the back cushion now.

"What are you doing?" said John, exasperation clear in his voice.

"Trying to sleep," he replied.

"You're going to sleep out here?"

"Obviously."

"Well, then where the hell am I supposed to sleep?"

"My room."

John stood there with his mouth open.

"You wouldn't let me have that room when I was a bloody cripple, but now you'll give it to me? Why?"

"It's cooler out here," replied Sherlock.

"How selfish-

"Yes, it's cooler out here, but my mattress is much more comfortable than this couch, and there's even fresh sheets on the bed. What exactly is your objection?"

"Nothing, I'll go sleep in your room," said John, shaking his head as he headed out of the room.

"But I don't want crumbs in between the sheets, so eat your sandwich first! I have no desire to have a mouse in my room as well."

John wanted to protest, but he had to admit he had been eating a lot of meals in his own room lately. But that was because he was the only one buying or preparing any food lately, and he had gotten sick of Sherlock's constant pilfering.

"Fine," he said, stopping for just a moment to toss the sandwich into the refrigerator.

He stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him and instantly regretting it. There was little enough cross-ventilation in the room as it was, it would have helped to have left it open. But having made the statement of slamming it, he refused to give Sherlock the satisfaction of knowing he had overreacted.

Mrs. Hudson, despite protesting yet again that she was 'not their housekeeper' had indeed just changed the sheets today, and there was even a fresh pair of Sherlock's fine silk pajamas set out on the cover. For just a moment, he considered nicking the pajama bottoms to wear, but in the end decided it would not be worth the time it would take to roll up the bottom hem so that he wouldn't trip over them. Besides, he decided, it would be cooler just to sleep in his pants.

Stripping down to his underwear and tossing both his clothes and Sherlock's pajamas onto the floor, he threw back all the covers and lay on the bottom sheet. Closing his eyes, he continued to fume for a short time, but then sleep won out and within a few minutes he was snoring loudly.

/#/#/

Outside of St. Bart's a group of janitors were standing just outside the restricted area and smoking.

"Isn't it time to go in yet?" asked one.

"Ah, don't worry about it, mate," said another. "It's too bloody hot to be working anyway. Besides, Roger's got the alarm set on his watch, don't you?"

"Like always," replied Roger.

Hearing a slight squeaking sound behind them, they turned and looked down the street to where a man was pushing a large waste bin in front of him, obviously headed for the huge dumpsters that stood at the back of the hospital complex.

"Most be one of the new 'uns," laughed the first janitor. "Always ambitions those new ones are, never taking a proper break."

"Well, after a year or two on the job, they'll learn it isn't worth it to work so hard," replied the second.

"Especially in heat like this," said Roger.

They chatted on for several more minutes, and then Roger's wristwatch began to chime softly.

"Well, that's it, one o'clock on the dot," he said, tossing down his cigarette.

But before anyone else could say or do anything, there was a huge blast, knocking them to the ground and sending debris flying around and over them.

Roger got to his feet after a few seconds, looking dazed and staring down at the ground as if scared that his cigarette had somehow set off the explosion.

"Christ, what the hell-"

Looking up, he suddenly fell silent as he realized there was a huge, gaping hole in the outer wall of the hospital, with flames licking around the edges of the break. Sirens and internal bells and horns were going off all around them.

Reaching down, he helped the other two janitors get to their feet.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Fine, just got the wind knocked out of me," said one.

"Oh, my god!" cried the other one, raising a shaking hand and pointing in the direction of the rubble that had sailed over their heads and landed behind them.

Roger looked and cried out as well. He could see bare legs sticking out at odd angles out of the pile of concrete and twisted steel.

"It blasted some patients right out of the building!" he cried, as they all hurried over to help.

By this time, there were hospital personnel swarming all over the area, some responding to the alarms and others just fleeing from the damaged building.

A man in scrubs pushed past them and put his hand out to touch a hand that was also sticking out of the rubble.

"Oh, my god!" he cried, as an unattached arm slid out.

Shrieking in shock, he pulled his hand away and the arm dropped down upon the debris-laden sidewalk.

Someone else was further back in the pile of trash, pushing some rocks out of the way and then bending down to place his hand upon what appeared to be a neck.

Roger joined him, ready to help pull more of the rubble off of him.

"Don't bother," said the man, standing back.

"He's already dead?" asked Roger.

"Stone cold he is," the man answered.

Bending down, he thrust his hand through another crevice to touch something else.

"They all are," he commented.

The man who had picked up and dropped the arm bent down to pick it up again.

"Not a drop of blood left in here either!" he exclaimed, looking puzzled.

Roger craned his head to look up at the building again, and then began to laugh.

"What's so funny?" asked one of the others.

"Well, look at what part of the hospital was attacked!" he said, his laughter continuing and threatening to turn hysterical. Pausing to catch his breath, he blurted out: "It's the bloody morgue, you idiots! Of course, they're already dead."

"Christ, you're right," said his friend, starting to laugh in relief as well.

"Well, thank god," said the third, joining them again, "at least that means nobody living was caught in that."

They chuckled together for a few more moments before Roger suddenly stopped, paling again.

"I mean no one would be working there at_ this_ time of night, would they?" he asked.

/#/#/

Lestrade's flat was near enough to St. Bart's that the blast had jolted him awake. In an instant, he had leapt up from the chair and raced over to the kitchen and switched on the scanner. Hearing the initial report, he looked sick and then lunged for his cell phone. By the time he picked it up, it was already ringing.

/#/#/

Although he had fallen asleep right away, John's slumber had not been particularly restful. He was having strange, jumbled dreams that combined his time in the army with his work as a detective. Entering a building where a murder had been committed, he was instructed by Lestrade to open up one of the doors. When he did so, he found himself in the middle of an operating suite, with everyone waiting for him to perform the surgery. It had started as a simple appendectomy, but everything turned horrific as he felt his hands begin to shake, the scalpel in his left hand nicking an artery and blood shooting out like a geyser. As he pinched the vessel closed with his fingers, crying for someone to bring four units of blood, STAT, he looked up and realized that his patient was Sherlock, his normally pale face turning even whiter as the blood drained out of him. Sirens and alarms began to sound all around him, filling the room. Looking across the table, he saw Mycroft Holmes shaking his head sadly and marking something off on a clipboard.

"No, it's not fair, let me try again!" he cried, raising his hands and finding the blood spurting all over him, covering him with sticky warm goo.

Suddenly jolted awake, he gasped for breath and realized that the noise were for real and that he was covered in a sheen of warm sweat. It still took him a few minutes to completely shake off the combined drowsiness and residual horror of the dream, but when he did he hurriedly pulled on his trousers before running out into the living room.

Sherlock was off of the couch, hands clasped behind his back as he peered out the window. As John moved to stand beside him, he saw flashing lights running down the streets all around them.

"What's happened?" he said, finally.

"A bomb has gone off. Obviously."

"Obviously," repeated John. "Well, I'm sorry, I was asleep and I didn't hear the explosion."

"I was awake and I didn't hear it," he replied. "We're too far away, apparently. But if you had listened carefully, you would have heard that the first sirens were the distinct sounds of fire engines and police cars, followed by the arrival of at least two bomb squads and ambulances."

John stood still and tried very hard to listen, but it all just seemed like a massive jumble of screeching sounds to him.

"Lots of ambulances?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Massive number of injuries then?" John sighed. "Maybe I'd better go out and see if I can be of assistance."

"I don't think that will be necessary," replied Sherlock. "I do not believe there are many injuries."

"Fatalities then?" asked John, his mind jumping to the next level of tragedy.

"Do you think an ambulance would bother to turn on a siren to transport a dead body?"

John bristled at the exceedingly facetious tone of his friend's voice.

"Well, you said there were lots of ambulances, but now you're claiming that nobody got hurt," he said, sounding frustrated.

"Fine," he added, turning away, "I'm too bloody tired for any of your riddles now. Maybe the news readers will know something."

Sherlock snorted in derision.

"Since when do they know anything? I certainly didn't say that no one was injured."

John made no reply, determined not to satisfy his ego by asking him again to explain what he meant. He searched around the coffee table for a few moments and then turned angrily back to Sherlock.

"Where the hell is the remote?" he asked.

"Oh, while you were out I became rather enraged at the level of idiocy being displayed upon the telly. I'm afraid I threw it out the window," was his cool reply.

"Our remote is sitting out on the street?" John asked.

Shaking his head, he started to storm out of the room.

"Oh, no. It landed squarely on the roof of the number 13 bus as it passed by."

Sherlock paused and drew in a breath and his whole body tensed for a moment as he leaned over to peer down into the street. Wondering what was going on, John hurried back to look out the window as well. But all he could see was a single police car, moving slowly but steadily down the street and travelling away from them.

Standing upright again and continuing on as if there had been no interruption, he remarked: "It was quite a good shot, actually."

"So, our remote's having a merry little ride around London then?

"Of course not, I'm sure it fell off as it made that sharp turn onto Oxford. Rather like Andrew West's body when the train hit the switch."

"Fine, I'll go retrieve it, or find somewhere to buy a universal one or two, in case you decide to make a habit of pitching the remotes out the window," he said.

Turning away again, he made it to the bedroom door before he heard Sherlock call out.

"John!"

"What?" he said angrily, stopping, but not turning back to face him.

"Please don't go."

In an instant, his tone had changed from annoyingly arrogant to poignantly pleading.

He turned back to look at him. Sherlock was still at the window, but his shoulders were now curiously slumped.

"Lestrade is here," he said, in a voice so soft that John could barely hear him.

John looked completely bewildered.

_After all these weeks of having nothing to do, I would think you'd be pleased to see him, _he thought.

"Please go let him in," Sherlock said.

This was said in more of his usual tone of command, but the unusual addition of 'please' still made John feel uneasy.

Tearing down the stairs, he heard him knock before he could reach the lower floor. Reaching out to open the door, he belatedly realized that he was still wearing only his trousers. Opening the door, his apology for his appearance went unspoken as he stared out at Lestrade's exceedingly ashen face.

On the floor above them, Sherlock tied his robe together with the belt and moved slowly to take a seat in his usual chair, templing his fingers in front of his face and staring out into the darkness as he listened to the low rumble of male voices rising from the vestibule. At John's sudden exclamation, immediately hushed, his jaw tightened for a moment and the knuckles of his fingers whitened. Hearing their murmured whispers stop, and the creak of the stairs, he rose and began to walk towards the stairway.

They looked up to see him standing at the top of the stairs, his hands clasped behind him as he stared down at them.

"I need to change first," he said, his voice oddly toneless and clipped. "Please go ahead without us and we will join you shortly."

Lestrade and John shared a single guilty glance.

"You know where we're going?" the policeman finally asked.

He stared down at them again for several seconds before opening his mouth to speak.

"I assume we are going to the morgue at University College Hospital so that I may assist at Molly Hooper's autopsy," he said.

There was the brief hint of a spasm in his left cheek, but otherwise his face remained motionless and unemotional.

"I assume if I were wrong in that assumption, you would have corrected me already," he said, turning away to stride towards the bedroom door.

Pausing with his hand upon the door, they could only see his silhouetted profile.

"Should you have any doubts, Detective Inspector, let me assure you that I am already certain that it was murder."

As Lestrade and John continued to gape at him, he strode into the room and shut the door firmly behind him.


	2. Chapter 2: The Morgue the Merrier

_Quick note: Thanks for the reviews, they are greatly appreciated. Hang in there, Sherlolly fans, it ain't over 'til the fat lady sings. Or in this case: until the skinny guy plays the violin!_

_If it isn't already too apparent, I am American. I try to keep their vernacular as British as possible while remaining comprehensible to the American audience, but I confess that when speaking of weather temperatures, I just find Fahrenheit so much more natural than Celsius, so forgive me for that obvious transgression!_

**Chapter 2: The Morgue the Merrier**

"Do you think he overheard us?" Lestrade asked, looking worried.

John raised his eyebrows. "Do you?"

Lestrade considered this a moment and then shook his head. Sherlock Holmes would never rely on something as mundane as eavesdropping to come to his conclusions.

"No," he said, "So how-"

"I don't have the slightest idea," admitted John, as he walked him to the door.

"How, uh, do you think he's really taking the news?" Lestrade asked.

John smiled sadly. He knew Sherlock better than anyone else in the world, and had lived with him through the whole roller coaster of the Irene Adler affair, but he still couldn't really gauge exactly what was going on in that 'funny old head' as Mrs. Hudson had put it.

"I don't have the slightest idea," he repeated.

Lestrade chuckled humorlessly and leaned wearily against the door jamb for a moment.

"Are you okay?" John asked, suddenly realizing the full extent to which the news seemed to be hitting the detective as well.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "But I've got a job to do and I'm going to do it," he assured him.

John stayed at the door and watched as Lestrade got into his car and drove away. Closing the door, he walked slowly up the stairs and made his way to Sherlock's bedroom door. Raising his hand, he dropped it and then raised it again several times until he finally found the courage to knock. Within seconds, Sherlock had opened the door, handing him a neat pile of the rest of his clothes, which he had evidently picked up from the floor.

"Of course, John, you need to get dressed as well," he said, before turning away again.

John quickly put on his shirt and then sat down on the bed to put on his socks and shoes. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock finish buttoning his suit coat and then walk over to the dresser. Picking up a hairbrush, he began to brush his unruly mop with a vigor that John had never seen him use before.

_Funny thing that. Wonder if it would give Molly a little bit of pleasure to know he's trying to make himself look good before he goes to see her. For the last time?_

Throwing the brush aside, Sherlock raised his eyes and caught sight of John looking at him in the mirror. For a brief moment, they made eye contact.

"You have a question, John?" Sherlock asked, turning to look at him.

"Well, I was wondering…" he began, uncertain of how to proceed.

"How I knew Molly was dead?"

"Yes."

Sherlock was silent for several long seconds and then he began to speak in that swift, stream-of-consciousness way he had when he was forced to explain something he found patently obvious to someone who was being unbelievably obtuse.

"I've already told you that it was clear that police and fire responded first, followed by the bomb squad and then lots of ambulances. As I've remarked, they don't need sirens to transport bodies, so they must have been transporting people who were still alive. But all the ambulances were coming from the west, and then branching out in all directions, including the various hospitals in the immediate area that do not even have emergency departments. Ergo, it was not people who had been injured in the blast that they were distributing to other hospitals; they were transporting already-hospitalized patients who were being dispersed throughout the city because the hospital they had formerly occupied was at the moment no longer habitable. A large hospital, one with many long-term patients and situated to our west. Would not St. Bart's strike even you as the most logical choice?"

"Yes, but that wouldn't necessarily mean that-"

"That Molly was personally involved in the bombing? No, it didn't, but I certainly knew that if anyone had any information in the matter and would be willing to tell me about it, it would be her. Even if I were wrong in the assumption that it was St Bart's, it was definitely a large London hospital and she would undoubtedly have been alerted to the emergency situation by the automatic employee notification system that is required in this time of terrorism. All of the hospitals regularly hold fake 'events' in order to practice coordinating their efforts in the face of a major attack upon one or more of them."

During this time, Sherlock had been pacing about in his usual impatient way, but now he stood still and glared at John.

"It took you nearly a half an hour to hear the hubbub and join me in the living room, John," he noted, sternly.

"I was sleeping," John replied, feeling rather stupid that he felt the need to apologize for doing something so natural.

"During that time, I attempted to call Molly at her work, at her apartment and on her cell without reaching her or getting any kind of reply in return."

"Yeah, well with a bomb going off she would have been pretty busy no matter where-"

Sherlock looked at him in disbelief. "Too busy to return a phone call from _me_?"

Sherlock would never be accused of wallowing in false modesty, but John had to admit that he, too, could not envision any situation in which Molly Hooper would not have rushed to return his phone call no matter what was happening. In fact, she herself would have been ashamed but honest enough to admit that she would have welcomed an excuse to work beside him again.

"So I could only conclude that Molly was injured or killed in the bombing, and since a morgue would be an unusually worthless area to launch an attack on, in terms of causing terror through the loss of life, it seemed highly likely that she herself must have been the primary target."

John sighed and shook his head, thinking for the innumerable time that once again his friend had come up with a quite logical sequence of events that he would never thought of in a million years. Getting up from the bed, he suddenly noticed something sitting on the edge of the dresser.

"Sherlock?" he said, his voice rising as he spoke.

"Yes?"

"That's the bloody remote sitting on your dresser!" he shouted.

"Of course," he replied.

Seeing John stare wordlessly at him, he threw out his hands.

"Oh, think, John, that bus wouldn't have been travelling down the road at the time you were in Speedys, it wouldn't have been due for another half hour. Obviously, the remote must have been in the pocket of my dressing gown the whole time.

"Of course, how silly of me. Why haven't I taken the time to memorize all the London bus schedules?" he said, facetiously.

"It would certainly help. Except, of course, when I wish to utilize your ignorance to distract you."

"You were distracting me? Why?"

"Really, what was the point of turning on the telly? If Molly were the target of this attack, it would be because of her association with me, and Lestrade would have made sure that there was no mention of her on the news reports until he had time to confirm all the facts. All we would have gotten was unnecessary noise in the background."

Pausing for a moment, he dropped his eyes to pick off a piece of lint from his coat before continuing.

"Or there was the even worse scenario that you would turn it on only to overhear that 'Dr. Molly Hooper, young pathologist working at St. Bart's, is believed killed in the blast'."

"Ah."

John sank down on the bed again, feeling his anger drain away. He had no doubt that it was more for this reason, a desire on Sherlock's part to break the news to him as gently as possible, that had made him so damn obstinate about not turning on the telly.

"So I waited," said Sherlock, still avoiding looking at John as he spoke. "Every time a police car without a siren came down the street, I steeled myself to have it stop here at Baker Street. I knew Lestrade would come in person to deliver the news. But I tried to…hope."

John smiled sadly. Sherlock usually had as much use for hope as he did for sentiment.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock raised his face to meet his eyes again. "Obviously there was still the chance that she was only injured, not killed. But once you and Lestrade began speaking downstairs, I knew that was no longer a possibility."

Silencing him with a gesture as he saw the puzzled look on his face, his friend continued: "Your exclamation, immediately hushed and then followed by a vigorous, if muffled, conversation, told me that. If Molly had been wounded, you would have rushed up here immediately to get dressed and inform me so that we could be on our way to see her while she was still alive and I would have a chance to make up for the myriad of unforgivable sins I have committed over the years in my treatment of the poor girl. The only logical conclusion as to why it was taking you so long was that you and he were conferring on how to best 'prepare' me for the news."

'Prepare you for news that you had known before I did," John noted, sadly.

"Thank you, John," he said. "It was kind of you to try and spare me.

"If idiotic to think I could," he answered.

Sherlock considered this for a few moments before answering, with a slight smile: "If I must have idiocy around me, it might as well be of a kindly nature."

For just a moment he looked slightly lost. "She was very kind as well," he added, dropping his gaze again. "I shall miss that."

John got to his feet. "Sherlock, are you sure-"

"Yes, perfectly sure that I am ready. We must be going."

He pulled open the bedroom door and motioned for John to precede him. John walked through and then heard him removing something off of the hook on the back of the door. He stood, slack-mouthed in astonishment as Sherlock paused to put on his coat and scarf.

"Sherlock, it's still nearly eighty degrees out there!" he cried.

"Is it?" he replied, shrugging his shoulders. "Well, morgues are notoriously cold, John."

He walked swiftly downstairs, John following closely behind. The latter stopped for a moment outside Mrs. Hudson's door.

"Do you think we should tell her?" he asked.

Sherlock shook his head.

"John, you of all people should know that bad news can always wait."

Surprisingly, given the police activity in the area, it did not take them too long to hail a cab, although the cabby did look rather startled at how Sherlock was dressed. When he announced that they needed to go to University College Hospital, John entertained the idea that perhaps the cabby thought they were going to admit him as an emergency case to their psych ward. But nothing else than their destination was spoken for several minutes as they made their way through the streets, Sherlock looking deep in thought as he stared out the window.

Since the hospital was fairly near to Baker Street, John knew it would not be a very long ride. Gathering up his courage, he cleared his throat and murmured gently to his friend:

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock frowned and looked over at him, and for a moment John thought he was going to tell him to just shut up. But then he seemed to read something in his friend's expression and he simply said, "Yes, John?"

"There's something I have to tell you. To prepare you. I mean, maybe you've figured it out, because, of course you always figure it out, but since you haven't said anything, I'm thinking you haven't, because you always say it, or usually do."

Glancing up at the rearview mirror, he saw the cabby looking back at him and looking slightly worried again.

_Great, now he thinks we're both headed for the loony bin,_ he thought.

Looking back at Sherlock, he saw that he was waiting patiently for him to continue, his eyebrows raised questioningly. John was not quite sure if he should be relieved or surprised that for once if did not appear that Sherlock knew exactly what he was about to say.

"I mean, I think it's only fair for you to know this before we go into there and see…her."

Taking in a deep breath, he soldiered on: "It, uh, wasn't just an explosion. There was a fire as well."

"Ah."

Sherlock looked away, and immediately became preoccupied with using his gloved finger to attempt to clean a spot off of the window. John was just about to tell him that he really thought it was on the _outside _of the window when he had to lean forward to hear what he was murmuring.

"Sorry," he said, "what did you say?"

"Was her body badly burned?" he asked again.

"Yes."

He himself had been dreading having to look at poor Molly's body in that condition, but he knew it was his duty to inform Sherlock of that sad fact as well. As bad as it was to imagine her young body burned and disfigured, it would be far crueler to let Sherlock wait into the morgue without knowing it in advance.

Turning back towards him, Sherlock began to rattle off again. John couldn't help but think that had he only known Sherlock for a short time, he would have thought that the man's impersonal tone meant that he was incapable of emotions as deep as empathy. Now he knew that it merely meant his friend was clinging to the cold familiarity in order to keep himself from teetering off into despair.

"Of course, I should have guessed that because otherwise Lestrade might have been willing to wait a bit to bring me in, but he feels a certain urgency given the increased damage to the body to make sure I had a chance to examine the evidence while it was as fresh as possible, given the circumstances. Before some bumbling pathologist could-"

He stopped short, a weird gleam in his eyes.

"Her entire body?" he asked.

John wrinkled his brow and shook his head.

"Um, no, actually. Lestrade said that it was kind of freak chain of events, looked like the fire just burst out and was then put out by the sprinklers right away. The way her body was laying, only the top part of her body fell into the flames."

"What about her hands?"

"Her hands?"

"Were her hands burned as well?" Sherlock asked, through clenched teeth.

"I don't know, he didn't say."

Sherlock whipped out his cell phone and dialed. "Were you able to get fingerprints?" he demanded, without any other preliminary greeting.

John could hear Lestrade's voice murmuring something over the phone for a few seconds before Sherlock cut him short.

"No, not at the scene you clot, off of her fingertips? No, they were too badly burnt."

John shuddered even as a demonic-looking grin spread across his friend's face.

"Yes, yes, O pos, just like it states on that little card she carries around, proudly proclaiming that she shares a blood type with more than a third of the population, hardly conclusive evidence and genetics testing will take forty-eight hours at least since you'll have to find definitive DNA from either the lab or her apartment to test it against." He listened again for a brief moment before once more interrupting. "Yes, I'm sure with Mycroft's help you should be able to get those by tomorrow afternoon."

Clicking off the call, he looked smug and pleased with himself. "I daresay I shall accomplish it in less than three-quarters of an hour," he noted, half under his breath.

Turning his attention back to his phone, he began to press keys at a frenzied pace as the cab jolted to a stop in front of the hospital.

Reaching across him, Sherlock opened John's door and began to push him out.

"Off you go then."

John allowed himself to be pushed out and then heard the door slam behind him. Looking back, he saw that Sherlock was still seated and still pushing buttons on his phone, apparently tracking down some kind of information.

"You're not coming?

"I have a little errand to run. See you soon," said Sherlock, gesturing at him to go.

"That's it?"

"Start driving," he said.

"Where to?" the cabby asked, looking alarmed again.

John took slight solace in the fact that he guessed the man would preferred it was him rather than Holmes remaining alone with him.

"Just turn on the meter and drive down the street for now," snapped Sherlock.

John stood and watched silently as the taxi pulled away from curb, and then frowned as he saw the brake lights flash on after only a few feet. As Sherlock's window began to roll down, John hurried over to it.

"Changed your mind?" he asked

"No, need money to pay the cabby. Wallet?"

He got out his wallet and opened it up, taking out a twenty pound note. He held it out to Sherlock, but his friend reached out to take the wallet instead, leaving him standing there with the single note in his hand.

"Hey!"

"I need the money more than you do, John."

"For what?"

"Emergency dental care at in the middle of the night is hardly cheap!" he informed him, haughtily. Throwing back his head, he moaned suddenly: "Oooh!"

"What—you okay?"

"Fine, just practicing," he whispered between clenched teeth. "And John's paying very good money to drive, so please do so," he said, raising his voice so that the cabby could hear him. The taxi pulled away, the window rolling up as it went, but he swore he heard Sherlock start groaning again before it sealed itself.

"Dr Watson?"

John turned to see a policeman approaching him.

"Yeah."

"I'm supposed to escort you and…"

His voice trailed off as he looked around, apparently expecting to see another person there.

"Sherlock Holmes," he finished. He turned around again and watched as the cab disappeared around a corner. "I expect he'll be back soon," he assured the man, gesturing for him to lead the way.

#/#/#

"Do you know who I am?"

John looked over at Lestrade as he sighed and wiped a weary hand over his brow.

"Yes, Dr. Matthews, I do. I also realize that you were called in over an hour ago and that it is now (checking his watch) four thirty-two in the morning. But I simply cannot allow you to start the autopsy until Holmes gets here."

"Ah, yes, the detective with a hat."

"He really doesn't wear a hat," John chimed in, but neither of the men paid any attention to him.

"Is he a trained pathologist?" puffed Matthews.

"No, he just…observes things that other people don't," said Lestrade, thinking that anyone who had never seen Holmes in action could not begin to imagine what that meant. "I don't want us to miss anything that could help us find her murderer."

"Murderer? You can't even be sure of what the girl died from yet. From what I've been told of the scene, it looks likely that it may turn out to just be a freak accident."

"I have it on good authority that it was murder" Lestrade replied grimly.

"She must have been a very _special_ young woman for you to be so involved, Detective Inspector," the doctor snarled.

"She was," answered John and Lestrade in unison. Something in their tone and fierce demeanor informed the doctor that if would be best if he did not make any more disparaging remarks about the late Molly Hooper at the moment.

"Fine," he said, finally, as he walked away. "I'll go get a cup of coffee and wait for another half hour. But after that-"

"If he hasn't shown up by then, you'll be free to go home," Lestrade assured him.

"I'll still be charging your department for my services!"

"Of course."

As Matthews flounced out the room, Lestrade turned to John but waited until the door closed to speak, insuring that the doctor was out of earshot.

"Are you sure you don't know where he was headed?"

John shook his head, hoping he was able to keep his expression neutral. They had been waiting for nearly an hour now in the small vestibule off of the main morgue room, and he perfectly understood Lestrade's frustration. It wasn't that he had any idea where Sherlock was, but if Lestrade kept questioning him, he might have to own up to the fact that he had shared a brief texted conversation with the detective. In reply to John's _What the hell are you doing?_ Sherlock had replied: _In middle of breaking and entering, please do not interrupt me again._

Both John and Lestrade looked exhausted, but they had just settled down on a bench to wait when they heard the door burst open again.

"Oh, god, I hope that's not Matthews back already, said Lestrade as he checked his watch again.

"Oh, don't worry Lestrade, I've already informed the judge that you are in the midst of a most pressing case and they simply will have to reschedule the hearing."

"What?"

Sherlock was striding confidently across the small room.

"You're worried about being tired and out of sorts for that settlement meeting in the morning, aren't you? It's already been cancelled, don't worry about it," he assured him breezily, as he strode past them. "Though you might want to give your lawyer a heads-up on the matter, since I sent the request to cancel in his name," he said, flashing him a smug smile before thrusting out his arms and pushing the swinging doors aside that led into the morgue. A second later he reemerged, looking perturbed. "Where's that idiot pathologist?"

"Cafeteria," replied John.

Although he might well have asked how Sherlock knew about his hearing and who his lawyer was, Lestrade was more interested in something else: "Where the hell have you been," he asked, "and why are you so damn happy?"

"Oh, proving that I'm right always makes me happy, doesn't it John?" asked Sherlock.

_Yes, but since it's Molly's murder we're talking about, it's a little creepy, even for you._

All three men turned as the door opened again and a young man wearing a white lab coat and carrying a large, long envelope came hurrying into the room.

"Ah, there we are!" said Sherlock, clapping his hands together.

"Oh, this isn't-" said John, about to explain.

"Of course it isn't, he's in the cafeteria, would you go get him? I'll take care of that" said Sherlock, grabbing the envelope out of the young man's hands.

The man, looking bewildered, looked over at Lestrade, who nodded his head to indicate he should follow Sherlock's instructions as the detective opened up the envelope.

"Go get Matthews from the cafeteria," he said.

"Excellent," Sherlock muttered, as he once again strode into the morgue.

John followed, remembering just in time to prepare himself for the smell of burnt human flesh and willing himself to not yet look at the body lying underneath the white cloth on the slab. He had turned down Lestrade's offer to let him see Molly's body while they waited, knowing that the image would probably haunt him forever

"You need to gown up, Sherlock," Lestrade began.

"What to look at an x-ray?" he countered.

Switching on the view box located on the wall, he looked through several of the films before placing one on the left hand side of the screen.

"What are we looking for, then?" asked John, as he came to his friend's side and looked up at the box.

"How similar it is to this," replied Sherlock, tossing the envelope onto the counter as he opened up his coat and retrieved something from an inside pocket.

"What's that?"

"Oh, didn't I mention it yet? I stopped to get the latest set of Molly Hooper's dental x-rays," he replied, placing it beside the right side of the view box. "Taken six months ago."

"How did you get those?" asked Lestrade, coming up behind them. "We haven't even been able to find out who her dentist is yet."

"Well, why didn't you ask John?

"What, me? How would I know?"

"Oh, John, five months ago we were out for lunch in Shoreditch when we saw her across the street,"

A memory slowly rose up in John's brain.

"Oh, yeah. And you immediately ducked behind the bus shelter so she wouldn't see you."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them, wondering if Sherlock was now feeling guilty about the rude way he had avoided her.

"Well, she was hardly in a state to enjoy lunch."

"Right." A pause. "Why?"

"Apparently you failed to notice that she had just stepped out of a medical office building whose occupants were a pediatrician, a dentist and a chiropodist. Although I would hope that even you would realize she is not a child and unlike most women has the sense to wear comfortable, sensible shoes at all times instead of those atrocious high heels that ruin their feet, I did have hopes you would at least have noticed that she was holding a hand over the side of her rather swollen face."

"You pulled me behind that shelter so fast that I didn't have time to see anything!"

"Well, no matter. Tell me, what do you make of these?" he said, tapping the films.

Glancing over at Lestrade, John shrugged. "Well, I'm not an expert at reading dental films, but I would say-"

He paused for a moment as he felt Lestrade rising up on his toes, as if anticipating an answer.

"They, uh, look like the same person," he said.

Lestrade dropped down on his feet again, a look of disappointment on his face. Biting his cheek, he turned away.

"Yes, they are _quite_ identical aren't they?"

John looked over at him, trying to discern what he was driving at.

"Well, it's not like they are copies of the same x-ray," he protested. "I'm not _that_ dense."

"Oh, John, I thought you'd have it by now."

Sighing, he put his hand into his coat again and produced yet another x-ray, putting it in the view screen between the other two.

"Oh, said John, as comprehension and a smile spread over his face. "That's Molly's x-rays from her office," he said, with complete certainty in his voice as he pointed at the middle film. "It's the only one that could be."

"Because?"

"Because the person in this film is actually biting down, these other two are-"

"Longer exposures of people you don't have to worry about moving while you're taking the x-ray, or of exposing them to prolonged radiation," finished Sherlock. "Plus," he said, tapping the middle film, "you can see a clear area of advanced decay underneath that tooth, explaining why she was holding her upper right jaw when we saw her. She must have just had a crown placed. A crown which is certainly not present on either of these other two films."

"So, Molly's alive, but we have _two_ corpses?" asked Lestrade, still looking puzzled as he came near to them again.

"No, as John says, these two x-rays are from the same person."

"Well, where did you get that one from?" he asked, pointing at the film on the right.

"From the lab at St. Bart's."

Lestrade's mouth dropped open. "You just waltzed in and took it?"

"Well, I don't recall dancing," he demurred.

"I ordered them to immediately bring all the files here," Lestrade cried, his face darkening.

"Oh, and they followed your instructions to the letter if not the spirit in which they were intended," Sherlock replied. "There was not a single file left in the lab. There was however," he smirked, "an x-ray cartridge lying on the lab counter. As Molly is notoriously neat and organized I had to assume that she had just finished taking the x-ray and had been interrupted before she could remove the film. "

"I have tons of my people over there at the moment."

"Most of whom are out in the street, very carefully trying to pick body pieces out of the rubble. Tough job for them, of course, because after they get finished tallying up the number of arms and legs they'll have the monumental task of dividing that number by four to try and figure out if they have the right number of bodies. You might want to let them know ahead of time that I believe they'll be short by one," he said, gesturing toward the body on the slab.

"Who is this, then?"

"The body of a young girl who was brought in an hour and a half to two hours before the explosion went off, I daresay. The autopsy would have to wait until morning, but Molly, again being the conscientious and motivated employee that she is would have entered the case number on the log, begun the paperwork and done the x-rays."

"But you don't know who it is," pestered Lestrade.

Sherlock sighed. "I should think it would be easy enough for you to check what girls in their late twenties to late thirties were brought in late last night who could be possible candidates."

"_Why_ don't you care?"

"Because the kidnapper didn't care!" Sherlock shouted. "Whoever she is and whatever she died from, the only reason she was of use to him was due to her similarity to Molly so that he could dress her in her clothes and barbecue her for a bit to throw us off the scent."

Rounding on John, he continued in a loud voice: "And don't bother giving me that look, bemoaning my 'lack of empathy'. Can you deny that your main emotion is relief that it isn't Molly lying dead over there?"

"No," John answered, shaking his head.

"Do you know who the murderer-I mean kidnapper- is?" asked Lestrade.

"No," Sherlock admitted, shrugging his shoulders.

"Well, then take a moment to look at her!" he yelled. "God knows the way you work, if would only take a few seconds, and if it could just possibly help us in figuring out where Molly is, why are you making such a bloody stink over it?"

John blinked in surprise. He really could not remember Lestrade being so openly emotional.

"Oh, very well, I'll take a quick look," Sherlock said, rather truculently.

Striding over to the body with John and Lestrade following him closely, he flung off the sheet.

"Well, now, what do you think? Are those Molly's clothes?"

Lestrade shot him another annoyed look, as if to say: "Oh, don't pretend as if you're the least interested in what I think."

But John sighed and took a stab at answering the question.

"Uh, like you said, sensible shoes, and nice but comfortable trousers for working, like she always wears. In fact I think I recognize them. I know I've seen that pink sweater many times." he added, finding his eyes drawn to the point where the material was so badly scorched, it had begun to melt and meld into the blackened skin.

"A sweater," said Lestrade excitedly. "Maybe that means these aren't Molly's clothes. I mean, why would she be wearing a sweater during a heat wave?"

John found himself glancing at Sherlock's heavy overcoat coat as he remembered his earlier answer.

"Ah, because she always works in the morgue," he said.

"Where it is always chilly, and even the lab was probably fairly cool since they've had the air conditioning going continually for days," finished Sherlock.

"Does that mean this is Molly?" said Lestrade, worriedly.

"No, obviously the man who kidnapped Molly took the precaution of clothing this corpse in Molly's clothes to make us think that she was dead, giving himself more time to get her into hiding before we realized she had been taken. "

"He took the time-"

"Not exactly much going on at St Bart's, particularly the morgue at that time of night is there? There was very little chance that they'd be interrupted, particularly as I'm sure he had taken the precaution of knowing when the regular security rounds were conducted."

He stopped suddenly.

"What?"

"Just how certain was he?"

Snapping his fingers, he nodded his head. "Of course, the position of her lipstick meant that not only was she trying to alert someone, he knew it as well.'

"What do you mean?"

Looking exasperated at their obvious ignorance, Sherlock put his hand into his coat pocket and drew out a lipstick case. "Not only did your men overlook the x-ray cartridge, but they also failed to find this underneath the counter."

"Are you even sure that's Molly's?" asked Lestrade. "Doesn't look like her normal shade."

"Excellent observation," said Sherlock, darting a quick and almost suspicious look in the inspector's direction. "Nor does she usually make a habit of taking makeup in with her at night."

Then he nodded and wrapped his fingers more tightly around the case as another thought appeared to occur to him.

"Which means, we definitely need to check to see if he was so certain they'd be uninterrupted, he did a thorough job," he said.

Tossing the lipstick back into his pocket, he hastily began to unbutton the corpse's trousers.

"Don't you think you'd better at least put gloves on?" warned John.

Lestrade however, was more intrigued by another thought.

"You know what kind of knickers she wears?" he asked.

"I lived with her after I died, didn't I?"

For a split second, John could not help but marvel at the incongruity of that comment, topped only by that fact that it made perfect sense to all three of them.

"Believe me, with nothing else to do I was quite familiar with all her underthings by the time I rearranged and organized her drawers. To ease your mind, Lestrade, that is not a double-entendre," he assured him.

For all the horror of their current situation, John had to work hard to keep a grin off of his face as he saw Lestrade's expression change from slight shock to relief as he digested this last statement.

"What the hell are you doing?" demanded a voice.

Dr. Matthews had returned, and taking in the trio of men gathered around the slab, he was charging angrily towards them.

"He's destroying evidence, not even wearing gloves-"

Looking up quickly, John saw that Lestrade had stepped in to physically restrain the pathologist from attacking the perceived interloper.

"Oh, no," he heard Sherlock say, and John turned back to find him looking down at the body, his face suddenly drained of all blood. Then his eyes trailed down to where his friend's hands were, the fingers hovering a fraction of an inch over the dead woman's now-exposed abdomen.

"Sweet Jesus," said John, staggering slightly as he took a step backward.

"What?" said Lestrade, still holding unto the doctor even though the other two men's exclamations and actions had momentarily stunned Matthews into immobility as well.

Following the direction of John's gaze, Lestrade bent down and frowned, his eyes narrowing.

"Well, I'm certainly no expert on ladies lingerie," he said.

Casting a quick glance in Sherlock's direction, John was glad to see that for once he was in no mood to make a belittling remark upon his comment.

"But that doesn't look like something most women would wear."

"Definitely not."

In fact, it didn't look like a pair of ladies knickers at all. Instead, it appeared that she was wearing a white pair of mens pants, with a broad waistband in a somewhat sickening color of green.

"If you would, _please_, Inspector? said Matthews.

He had stopped struggling a while ago, but Lestrade's arms were still locked tightly around him.

Lestrade seemed to forcibly rouse himself from a temporary stupor and released his hold on the doctor. They both stood still, trying to decipher why the other two men seemed so horrified.

"Sherlock," John finally said, "given this-are you still sure that this isn't Molly?"

"Yes," said Sherlock pushing away from the slab as well.

For all the times that John had found himself incensed by his friend's superior attitude in knowing something that everyone else around him was simply too stupid to grasp, he really wished there was something more definite in his tone.

"Okay, then," he finally said, "But this might mean then…"

"No!" the answer was much quicker and forceful this time, but John still could not quite quell the disturbing thought that Sherlock might trying to convince himself of the answer. "She's not dead, he hasn't killed her."

John waited.

"At least not yet," he heard Sherlock add, almost inaudibly.

"Then what is the problem?" asked Lestrade, looking back and forth between the two men.

"The problem is," said Sherlock, sitting down on a stool and clasping his fingers together in front of his face, "that I am no longer certain Moriarty is dead."


	3. Chapter 3: A Little Knight Music

**Chapter 3: A Little Knight Music**

"How can he not be dead?" asked Lestrade. "You confirmed it yourself."

"Yeah, right after _he_ came back from the dead," John reminded him.

Sherlock was still sitting in the chair, staring straight ahead and not paying the least attention to either of them.

"What's so bad about this underwear?" asked Matthews, apparently feeling the need to contribute something to the conversation.

"That's the underwear that Moriarty was wearing when we first met him, or at least a reasonable facsimile of it," explained John.

Lestrade had known the men long enough to look only mildly surprised at this information, but Matthews looked absolutely shocked.

"Oh, for god's sake, I'm not gay!" cried John.

"Shut up, _shut up_, all of you!" demanded Sherlock, rising from his chair. Clenching his fists in frustration, he paced back and forth for a few seconds. Suddenly stopping, he threw out his hands and tilted back his head as he screamed: "I know she's alive!"

"Sherlock, calm down, we believe you," said Lestrade.

"It's not _you_ I have to tell, it's _him_._" _

"Moriarty?" John asked.

"Yes, but where is he and how do I tell him?"

"Well, if he is alive and has done all this, he must be eagerly waiting for your response?" John guessed.

"Exactly!" Sherlock said, beginning to pace again. "Oh, he's been enjoying watching me dance, seeing me go from despair, to desperate hope, to exhilaration, and then back to despair again, but where does it go from here?"

He took out his cell phone and scowled as he looked quickly through several screens.

"No calls, no texts, no messages. Nothing?" he asked, looking at John.

"No, replied John, "the only thing I've gotten recently is that text from you."

"Check again," Sherlock demanded, "even something that seems like a random misdialed number."

"Fine," he said. Taking out his phone, he began to punch the buttons.

"Maybe it's on her," said Sherlock, looking toward the corpse again.

Putting his cell phone away, he approached the slab.

"Need to check her pockets," he murmured.

"Already checked," said Lestrade, holding out his hand.

"By_ your_ people."

He reached towards the corpse again.

"_Put the bloody gloves on first!"_ roared Matthews.

"He will," Lestrade assured him.

Sherlock took on one of the mutinous looks he usually reserved for Mycroft.

"He will," Lestrade repeated, walking over to stand beside him.

For a moment, it looked as though Sherlock was going to continue to defy the policeman, but after a pleading look from Lestrade, he sighed and shook his head and strode on over to the table pushed against the side of the wall. After hastily pulling on the loose-fitting vinyl gloves, he stepped back to the body and quickly began to go through her pockets. Finding nothing, he groaned in frustration and stepped back.

"Sorry, Sherlock, all I've had is calls and messages from Harry for the past two days," John said. "Unless you think?"

"No, your sister's just been off on a binge again," he growled, as he tore off the gloves and threw them into the bin.

"Yeah, that's what I thought, that's why I haven't responded," replied John, pocketing his phone.

"Bring me Molly's cell phone!" demanded Sherlock, looking at Lestrade.

"Uh, I don't have it."

"Her purse was not in its usual place in the lab cabinet, so your men obviously took it out of the lab, along with the files."

"No, they didn't."

"Sherlock, I don't understand something," said John, furrowing his brow.

"What?"

"How did you manage to find what you did anyway, I thought the whole place had just been hit by a bomb?"

"Oh, the lab was fine, it was only the morgue that was hit," Lestrade said. "Well, actually, it started in the store room adjacent to the morgue, but the full force of the explosion went out that way, through the morgue and blowing out the outer wall. Plus of course, the damage from the smoke and water throughout the place because of the explosion and fire and then the automatic sprinklers coming on. But the lab, which was on the other side of the storeroom, was basically untouched except for things falling over because of the force of the blast."

Sherlock had sunk down onto a stool again, this time studying the floor.

"Another conveniently 'accidental' gas explosion?" he asked.

"No, it was _ether_ this time," said Lestrade, wrinkling his brow.

John turned back to look at him, his mouth dropping open.

"Ether?" repeated Sherlock, looking puzzled. "She keeps some in the lab, of course, because she needs it occasionally for some of her extractions. But it's only a tiny can, and she faithfully keeps it under the fume hood, even when it's unopened. But even the entire can would not be enough to blow a hole through a reinforced wall."

"There was a stack of ether cans piled up next to the wall in the storage room," said Lestrade. "A leaking pipe above them must have been dripping water down upon it for a while, because the cans began to rust through and the fumes were building up. You know how volatile that stuff is, takes just one spark for the whole thing to go up with a blast."

"As I said, it could turn out to just be a tragic accident," said Matthews.

"That ended with a magical blast that just happened to blow Molly's clothes off of her and onto a corpse?" Sherlock said.

"Oh."

"Molly would never have been that careless," he said. "Whatever ether was there she kept in the hood or in a reinforced flammables cabinet. Strange that he would go such lengths to create that set-up though."

"Sherlock?"

He turned his attention to John.

"He has contacted us already," he said, his voice quietly assured.

Sherlock jumped to his feet and grasped John around the shoulders.

"How?"

"Earlier today, I was on a chat site, talking with some other doctors who had been in Afghanistan, trading stories about our experiences when this other guy suddenly signs in and asks if anyone had ever used ether as an anesthetic while they were working in the field. Well, it struck everyone as kind of odd I think, because we all went silent, and then one guy finally typed something about 'maybe we had to work in pretty primitive conditions, but nothing that outdated.' Then the guy who had asked the question said, 'Well, it never hurts to be reminded how dangerous it can be', and then signed out. I just thought it was a bit of a weirdo at the time."

"Or some kid who's heard about sniffing it for pleasure, because he's heard that you get a buzz and energy off it before it knocks you out, depending on how long you're inhaling it," Lestrade mused.

They all looked over at Sherlock.

"Has _he_ been sniffing ether?" asked Matthews, concerned about the way the man's eyes were darting about and he was lifting his hands to point at things in the air.

"No, he's just…trying to figure something out," replied John, figuring that was better than telling the pathologist that his friend was currently in his 'mind palace'.

He jumped back as Sherlock unexpectedly stopped and lunged toward him again.

"You need to find the site for me!" he cried.

Pulling John over to another bench, he pushed him down to seat him in front of a computer. "Bring it up for me," he commanded, standing over John's left shoulder.

"Hey, that's hospital property," protested Matthews, scowling at them.

"Yes, and I'm sure the hospital would be delighted to know that you regularly download porn upon their property," retorted Sherlock, throwing him a disdainful glance.

"Oh," said Matthews, abruptly shutting his mouth and retreating as Lestrade tiptoed around him to go stand behind Watson as well.

John had logged into the site and had retrieved his previous chat. "There," he said, pointing at the screen.

Sherlock bent down further over his shoulder and nodded, quickly reading the messages and then he reached over to the mouse, scrolling through the following posts much too rapidly for Lestrade or John to read.

"I was hoping your memory was faulty," he said, his body relaxing slightly.

"Wasn't it there?" John asked.

"When the subject was brought up, especially being in a group of doctors, you immediately assumed it had to do with a legitimate medical use: You said he asked if anyone had used it for an anesthetic. The actual quote was: 'did anyone every knock anyone out with it?'"

"And that's good?"

Sherlock glanced between Lestrade and John.

"What would you prefer?" he asked, as he lowered his voice. "That he used it merely to 'knock Molly out' as he clearly did to get her out of here without a struggle? Or that he intended to use it as an anesthetic, removing pain so that he could perform surgery on her?"

"Dear god," said Lestrade, shutting his eyes as if to try and erase the image that had formed in his own mind of Molly tied down to a table and having various body parts cut away.

Turning back to the computer, Sherlock pointed at the screen.

"But there's been no more from him since then," he noted.

"They way you flew through the screens, are you sure?"

"No, that's the last one," he said, flipping back to the screen to where he had signed off from the conversation John had remembered.

"Oh," groaned Lestrade, finally able to read the whole message.

"What is it?" asked John, looking back at him.

"_Art Tinbass_?" he said, pointing at the screen name. "How could you miss that, John?"

"Miss what?"

"An exact anagram for 'Saint Bart's," supplied Sherlock.

"Good work," said John, looking up at him in surprise.

Lestrade shrugged and cleared his throat. "Been doing a lot of _Scrabble_ lately," he mumbled.

"Shh!" hissed Sherlock, his hands up to his forehead as he closed his eyes and concentrated. "I need to choose just exactly the right words myself. "

"All right," he said, his eyes bursting open and moving to lean over John again, "type the following, there will be three sentences."

"Okay," said John, his fingers poised above the keyboard.

"Tell Molly I found your calling card. How coy of you not to leave your number this time. Has death made you shy, Jim?"

John's fingers tapped out the words rapidly and then turned back to look at him.

"That's it?" he asked.

Sherlock's lips were moving slightly as he read the words on the screen, making sure they were exactly what he wanted.

"Send it," he said.

John hit the enter button and then they all stood staring down at the blinking cursor on the screen.

"How long do you think it will take him to reply?" asked Lestrade, glancing at Sherlock.

"No one else is even signed in right now," said John, pointing out that 'JHWTSN' was the only name appearing in the square showing current online activity.

But to his amazement, a few seconds later two more lines appeared, attributed to _Art Tinbass_.

**Took you long enough to figure it out. Has death made **_**you**_** stupid?**

"Don't let him bait you," warned John.

Sherlock shook his head.

"Where's my next clue?" he said, nodding at John to type it.

**Oh, dear, Mr. Holmes, you are horribly out of practice. I sent it to Baker Street before the explosion.**

Then all three men suddenly reared back as there was a loud popping noise and the screen went blank.

"You broke my computer!" yelled Matthews from across the room.

"Not your computer, the hospital computer," replied Sherlock. "Though in fact," he said, pointing at the address line that was still visible at the top of the screen, "it appears that it is only the website that is disabled."

John entered another address and the screen switched to another website. Trying the former address again, he was greeted by a "404, website not found" error.

"Permanently disabled, then?" asked John.

"I would presume."

"So, no more hints from there," said John, turning back to look at Sherlock.

"What do you think?" asked Lestrade.

"I think he's right, I am being dim-witted."

"No idea what this clue is or where it is?" Lestrade asked.

"None whatsoever," Sherlock admitted.

"So?" asked John.

"So back home we go,"

"You're leaving?" fumed Matthews. "I waited over an hour and a half for you to get here!"

"Sorry, but I do have more pressing business at the moment," he said. "Lestrade, why don't you call in Anderson to help the good doctor?" He allowed himself a small smile. "I can't think of two people who better deserve to spend time in each other's company."

#/#/#

With John following Sherlock out into the hallway, they made their way to the lift.

Leaning forward to press the button, John cleared his throat and glanced around; making sure Lestrade hadn't followed him before he asked the question.

"How exactly did you get her dental x-rays so fast?

Sherlock smirked.

"Did you know that her dentist takes the same month-long holiday each year?

The doors opened and they stepped inside.

"Sorry, was that posted on the door of the office building that she walked out of too? I suppose with speed reading, I'm supposed to have telescopic vision as well?" John asked, as he punched the button for their floor.

"Of course it wasn't listed there, John. If it had been, I wouldn't have wasted precious time this evening eliciting that information out of his answering service."

"Ooh," he groaned again, lifting a hand to his face. "Oh, please, I have the most awful toothache; I simply must see him as soon as possible. What? He's already been out for two weeks and will be gone another two? Ooooh!"

The sound reverberated within the enclosed space, and John wondered if people waiting for the lift on different floors were hearing that moaning and wondering what it was about.

"They can be so wonderfully sympathetic when you're in pain," Sherlock added with a grin.

"Good job acting," replied John.

"Well, it wasn't that hard. After all, if this hadn't worked, I would have had to turn to my dear brother to expedite the process of obtaining the records, as Lestrade initially suggested. The thought of having to ask Mycroft for a favor always causes me a great deal of agony. At any rate, I was able to control the conversation so that I managed to get the number and address of a back-up dentist from the answering service, which I made a great show of writing down on a piece of paper. Then I handed the slip to the cabby."

"But written upon it, of course, was the address of Molly's dentist, where you were headed to, anyway."

"Of course. By the time we got there, he was quite concerned about leaving me off, but I assured him that the dentist would be there shortly."

"Had you broken into the building by the time he got to the corner?" John asked, as they stepped off the lift.

"Of course not, John," he replied, sounding insulted. "I took the sensible precaution of asking two of the homeless gentlemen in the area to serve as look-outs for me before I started."

#/#/#

"John!"

He started and opened his eyes, feeling Sherlock's fingers on his shoulder as he shook him awake.

"Sorry," he said, trying to suppress a yawn.

They'd been unsuccessfully searching the flat for several hours by now. Sherlock had begun in his own bedroom and then he'd moved on to John's, even going so far as to dig out the body of the dead mouse from the trash bin.

"I thought you studied entrails to divine the future, not the past," John joked, weakly, as Sherlock began making an incision in the dead rodent's belly.

Sherlock did not deign to answer, but a moment later his eyes were gleaming in triumph.

"Oh, I think you can tell something of this mouse's past, can't you?" he said, nudging it over in John's direction.

"Ah," said John, suddenly understanding. "It died of a massive hemorrhage," he said, poking around at the large amount of congealed blood clogging the abdomen. "Which is how mouse poison works."

He drew back in his chair as he tried to work out what that meant.

"I told you it was dead when I found it!" he protested. "That's why I couldn't see why it bothered Mrs. Hudson as much as it did."

"I think it means that a mouse didn't happen to die in your room, John, it means that someone purposefully placed it there."

"Who would have put a dead mouse in my room?"

"No, John, the proper question is who _could _have put a dead mouse in your room."

"Moriarty, I'm guessing. Does that mean this is the clue he was talking about?"

"No!" Sherlock said, pushing the mouse off to the side and going over to the sink to clean his hands and the knife. "But it does seem to be another piece of the puzzle."

Unfortunately, that had proved to be their biggest excitement so far. Having finished off the bedrooms, they moved on to the living room, putting off the messy kitchen until last. John had sat down in his usual chair and begun to go through all the mail they had received in the past week, dividing it into stacks with Sherlock glancing over everything as well. But the doctor's tired body had finally betrayed him and he had fallen asleep with the letter opener still in his hands.

John blinked his eyes and stared down at his watch. Nearly eight o'clock in the morning. Besides that tiny bit of sleep he managed last night between one am and two, he'd been awake for over twenty-four hours now.

"Go make yourself some coffee," commanded Sherlock.

"Good idea," John replied, standing up stiffly and yawning. "You want any?"

"No," he replied, kneeling down on the hearth so that he could peer up into the blackened interior of the chimney.

"No, of course not," he muttered under his breath. "You won't take a bit of food or drink until this is over with, will you?"

John's stomach, on the other hand, was already hungry and rumbling. Going into the kitchen, he filled the kettle with fresh water and put it on to boil before spooning some ground coffee into the cafetiere. Looking in the refrigerator, he wrinkled his nose in disgust before fishing out the obviously spoiled milk in order to throw it away. He poured the milk down the sink and then dumped the empty carton into the bin.

"Do you mind if I go out to grab a few groceries?" he asked.

"You still have that sandwich from last night, eat that if you're hungry," was the reply.

John sighed and shook his head. A sandwich at eight o'clock in morning was hardly his first choice, but he supposed it was better than nothing. Hearing the kettle come to a boil, he stopped to pour the hot water into the cafetiere before turning to open up the refrigerator again. Grabbing out the sandwich, he looked down, slightly puzzled until he remembered that he had wrapped the advertisement around it when coming back to the flat. Peeling off the paper, he glanced at it again and laughed, thinking to himself that it really was a pretty ugly dog. Just as he reached out to toss the paper into the bin, however, something else on the page suddenly popped out at him.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he blurted, as he came running into the living room, holding out the sheet of paper. "I'd completely forgotten about this with all that's happened."

Looking puzzled, Sherlock reached up to grab the sheet from John's hands, his soot-lined fingers making black smudges on the pink-colored paper.

"Where did you get this?" he asked, rising to his feet.

"It was posted on the door when I came back from Speedy's yesterday," John explained. "I just glanced at it, I didn't really look at it properly before."

"Obviously," said Sherlock, sitting down at his desk and laying the piece of paper down on the surface.

Indeed, all John had noticed the night before were the words 'Missing Dog' at the top of the paper, and that it was a large and fuzzy picture of a rather ugly-looking mongrel. He hadn't even bothered to look at the paragraph underneath the picture until just now.

_A dear little bitch named Molly has disappeared and it's up to you to find her. You better make it quick because there isn't much time. After all, what is more important to anyone than their pets, their family and their loved ones? Ah, well, I suppose, in the end, all we have are the memories. _

_Hugs and kisses! JM_

Below that there was a telephone number.

Taking out his cell phone, he turned on the speaker and dialed the number. After three rings there was a short hiss and then silence, and John bent down to try and hear better. He jumped back a second later as music began to play and smooth male voices began to croon:

_Too much for a man..He couldn't make it_…

After those few brief seconds, they heard the same popping noise as when the website had disappeared.

"Apparently only one shot at this as well," John murmured, sitting down besides Sherlock.

"At least I recorded it this time," Sherlock said. Pushing a button, they listened to the brief snippet again.

"He's mocking you?" John asked.

"Well, obviously," said Sherlock, rolling his eyes. "But there has to be more than that."

"Hey, I know that," said John, suddenly. "At least, I think I do, play it again."

Sherlock obliged by playing it back several more times.

"It's from a popular song, from a while back," John said, closing his eyes as he tried to concentrate. "Sarah used to play it all the time. But it's not really a main part of it, just a short little bit from the beginning."

Opening his eyes, he saw that Sherlock was depending on him to identify what it was, as his own taste in music was almost strictly classical.

"Got it!" he said, snapping his fingers. "_Midnight Train to Georgia_."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, deep in thought.

"So does that mean it has something to do with a train…or with Georgia...?" offered John.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, continuing to ruminate.

"And which Georgia, the part of the United States or Russia?" mused John. "I mean, Moriarty said he had people everywhere."

"Who sings it?"

"What?"

"The song, who is singing it?"

"Gladys Knight."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows slightly.

"Those deep voices were _Gladys?"_

"Well, no, that bit isn't. That's her male backup group, the Pips."

As soon as that last word was out of his mouth, a thrill of excitement ran through him which he knew was matched by Sherlock's reaction.

"How many?"

"What?"

"How many Pips were there?"

"Uh, three I think. Or four," he added, sounding doubtful.

"John, when will you learn to be more observant," Sherlock muttered, picking up his phone again.

After hitting a few buttons, he waited a moment and then began to speak. "Hello, Sarah, this is Sherlock Holmes. Oh, no, he's fine, nothing at all like that; we are just playing a little trivia game and need to know how many Pips Gladys Knight had. John said you were such a fan he was certain you would know. Really? Well, thank you for that information. Oh, and by the way, he's going with a lovely girl at the moment, a real looker and one who is much more understanding of the importance of male bonding."

"You could have looked it up on the internet," said John, his annoyance clear as Sherlock hung up.

"This was quicker," said Sherlock. "And much more satisfying," he added, underneath his breath.

"So, three pips. Three puzzles for you to solve."

"Yes."

"But no picture or other clue as to where to start looking?"

"Oh, he's given us that information as well," said Sherlock, picking up his phone and dialing again.

"Where?"

But Sherlock was holding out his hand, asking for silence.

"Lestrade, please tell me that you haven't searched her apartment yet?" He listened for a few moments, nodding in satisfaction. "Thank god for obdurate judges. Very well, just keep your team away until I have a chance to look at it first, I'll let you know when I'm done," he said, smiling as he snapped off the phone.

He stood up and in answer to John's questioning look replied: "The police have not as yet been able to obtain a warrant to search her flat. And you know Lestrade is such a stickler for rules".

"Unlike someone else I know," said John rising up. "So, we're off to break into her flat?"

"Oh, no need for that," said Sherlock, smiling as he reached into his trouser's pocket, "I have the key."


	4. Chapter 4: The Empty Mouse

**Chapter 4: The Empty Mouse**

"So," said John, looking rather forlornly at the coffee shop the taxi was passing by at the moment, "what are we looking for?"

He knew why Sherlock had demanded they needed to leave immediately, but he still thought they could have spared a few seconds for him to take his coffee with him.

"I'm not sure," replied Sherlock calmly.

"Well, do you think we'll find her purse there?" he asked, remembering their earlier conversation in the morgue.

"Possibly," said Sherlock, shrugging his shoulders. "Given the clue, it's much more likely that we'll find something missing though, I think."

John, resigned to the fact that his friend was determined to be cryptic at the moment, gave up trying to question him further. As they arrived at the block where Molly's flat was, Sherlock jumped out of the car as soon as the taxi came to a halt.

John reached into his pocket and groaned, realizing that he still only had the single bill Sherlock had left him with earlier. Digging the twenty pound note out of his pocket, he handed it to the driver.

"Don't have any change for that, mate!" the driver warned him.

"And why am I not surprised," John replied, making his way out of the car.

A few moments later he caught up to Sherlock as he opened the vestibule door.

"Could I have my wallet back please?"

"Of course."

He dug it out of his pocket and handed it to him before stepping into the entryway.

John opened it up and took a look. "Bloody hell, where's my money?"

"Oh, that's all gone," Sherlock assured him, waving his hand.

"There was over one hundred pounds in my wallet!" cried John, looking outraged.

"Well, it's expensive to hire lookouts at the last moment when you break into a building," he said.

Just as he was speaking, a door opened up and a sour-looking old woman peered out suspiciously at them.

"Oh, it's quite all right," he assured her, flashing a smile that was much too broad, "this time we have the keys," he said, dangling the chain before her eyes before she hastily retreated back into her flat and slammed the door.

"Great, now she'll be calling the police," said John.

"No doubt she will," agreed Sherlock, pocketing the keys again.

John looked up at him, looking alarmed.

"Oh, Mrs. Brisby calls the police at least twice a day anyway," he said. "She believes it is her civic duty to complain about the neighbors making too much noise, or their dog ruining the hall carpet, someone stealing her Sunday edition of the paper, or that some suspicious character is hanging around the building."

"Since she calls all the time, they pay absolutely no attention to her at all. Even when she's right," he added, as he started up the flight of stairs.

Sherlock had never talked much to John about the time he had spent hiding out at Molly's flat until he had been able to reveal to him that he was still alive. But he now suspected that torturing that old busybody had been one way he kept himself from getting too bored while he was cooped up there.

They arrived at the next floor and Sherlock led the way to Molly's apartment.

"So, three keys, then?" John asked, as Sherlock took the ring out of his pocket again.

"Of course, one for the vestibule, one for the conventional lock, and one for the deadbolt," he said.

The doorknob was placed on the right side of the flat door. Selecting one of the keys, he placed it into the lock that was situated in the wood well above the door knob. Turning the key counterclockwise, it moved noiselessly with the lock to the left.

Sherlock turned to John and gave him a knowing look. Seeing John's blank expression in return, he sighed and then turned the key all the way to the right, and then to the left again. At each of those motions, a large 'thunk' resounded in the hall.

A look of comprehension spread on John's face, and he reached out gingerly to try the door knob. It remained firmly in place as he tried to turn it to either the left or the right.

"So, this doorknob is locked, but not the deadbolt wasn't in place, because we would have heard the bolt being retracted if it were," whispered John.

Sherlock nodded. "As an intelligent woman living alone, Molly always took the precaution of securing the deadbolt, whether she was in the flat or not," he whispered back.

"So Molly was not the last person in this flat."

Sherlock nodded again. "A good deduction, John," he said.

"Thank you."

"Though only half of the correct answer, unfortunately."

"Whoever it was is still _in_ there?" he guessed.

"No, long gone," replied his friend, "he wouldn't have taunted me on how 'long' it was taking me to solve the puzzle if he hadn't finished here hours ago."

As he put one of the other keys into the keyhole of the knob, John suddenly raised his hand to stop him.

"He's known to plant bombs, you know."

"Yes," he said, turning the key in the lock, "but he's also told me I'll get three chances to find her before he kills her, so he won't be getting rid of me yet."

"What, three chances, kill her-"

"John if you can't add anything useful to the conversation, please remain quiet."

He pushed the door open and stepped quickly into the room, with John right behind him. Closing the door behind them, he leaned back and waited for just a moment before letting out a long sigh.

"But the question is, has he killed _him _yet."

"Him who?"

"Toby."

"Who's Toby?"

"Her cat.

"Right." He paused and looked around the flat. "Should we call him, then?"

"Do you think cats come when you call?"

"Sprinkle some catnip then?"

Sherlock shook his head. "There's none in the flat. Toby is one of those rare cats who actually detests the stuff."

"Ah, then how do we get him to come out?"

"The fact that he is not here already, rubbing his head against my calves and getting his hair all over my black trousers means he is either not here, or in no condition to walk over to me. Most probably the former."

"Her cat liked you?" asked John in astonishment. "Whenever I've dated a woman with a cat, it's always taken an instant loathing to me."

"No, this perverse feline was even more openly enamored of me than his mistress was, if you can believe it. Not only that, he was infinitely much harder to rebuff with a well-placed insult."

"Gee, between the cat and the old lady downstairs, it must have been hell to live here," said John, unable to contain a smirk as he followed behind Sherlock as he began to look around the apartment.

"You have no idea how awful it was."

_Yeah, during that time all I had to do was sit around crying all day because I thought my best friend had killed himself._

Passing a cursory glance around the living room, the detective walked down the hall and then stopped suddenly and peered into the open doorway on the left. Clicking on the light he went into the room and John followed.

They were now in a narrow aisle kitchen. At the far end of the room there was a small table, just big enough to seat two people and on the worn but clean linoleum in the corner there was a tray containing a bowl of cat food and water. He looked over at Sherlock, sure that he had noted that both bowls seemed completely filled, but the tall man was staring down at the sink with what seemed like an inordinate amount of interest to his friend.

"Interesting," he finally said, turning back.

John couldn't see anything remotely interesting about the ancient but well-scrubbed stainless tub, but as he gazed around the room he did wonder if Molly had allowed the detective to fill this neat, tiny space with all the experiments that habitually overflowed the cabinets of 221B.

Turning to leave the room, Sherlock crossed the hallway into the small bathroom that was situated opposite the kitchen. The shower curtain was pulled shut and Sherlock reached over to pull it back. For a brief moment, John's found himself wishing he had brought his handgun, despite Sherlock's assurance that the kidnapper (and catnapper, apparently) was no longer in the flat. There was no one living or dead hiding in the shower stall, however, and apparently nothing out of the ordinary about the bottles and jars arranged in the shower and on the counter. The catbox tucked away in one of the corners also did not draw any special attention from the detective. Exiting the room, John again allowed Sherlock to lead the way to what appeared to be the one remaining room in the apartment, at the end of the short hallway.

"Just the one bedroom, then?" he asked, immediately regretting it as Sherlock stopped so fast he nearly ran into him.

Turning back, he gave him a withering gaze.

"We took turns using the sofa," he hissed.

"How gallant of you," replied John, dryly. Then he nearly ran smack into him again as he once more halted suddenly.

"There's usually an afghan on the end of the bed," he said. "It's one her grandmother made,"

"Maybe it's being cleaned."

"She does have to clean it often because of the cat lying on it, but she always cleans it by hand and dries it by hanging it over the curtain rod," he said, shaking his head.

"Maybe he wrapped the cat up in it to take it away."

Sherlock glanced around the room. "No, I'm sure he used something else to take him out of the building."

John followed his gaze, but did not see anything in the room that would give him a clue as to what he meant. Turning back, he saw that that Sherlock was now standing in front of the bureau, pulling out the top right drawer.

"This is where she would always keep the purse she takes with her to work," he said.

Noting the surprised look on his face, John walked over and looked down at the drawer.

"There it is," he said, pointing at a large beige bag sitting in the corner. "Unless that's been switched too," he noted.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, this is the one she has been using lately," he said, reaching for it.

"Hey, you know Lestrade is going to be here eventually and they'll be dusting for prints."

"Oh, come now, John, surely you know that _he_ would have worn gloves before touching this," he replied. "And my fingerprints are all over the flat anyway. Including, I assure you, on this purse and its contents."

"Made a habit of sponging money off of Molly as well?"

His question went unanswered as Sherlock concentrated on flipping quickly through its contents.

"Her cell phone's there," John noted.

"Yes, why don't you make yourself useful by checking it for a clue, however unlikely," Sherlock said, tossing it over to him.

"That it's there or that I'll find it?"

Getting no reply, John shook his head and turned the phone on. "Locked," he said, turning the screen in Sherlock's direction.

"Of course," he answered, taking out a small, worn picture wallet and beginning to thumb through the images. "Four spaces, John!" he scolded, as if the answer was obvious.

"You want me to guess what it is?" John asked, in frustration.

Sherlock had stopped suddenly for a moment, staring down at one of the pictures, but before John could see what he was looking at, he snapped the wallet shut and looked up at him.

"Meow!" he shouted.

"Oh," said John. Shrugging his shoulders, he punched in '6369', but got only an angry buzz in return.

Sighing, Sherlock tossed the picture wallet aside and closed his eyes, covering his face with his hands.

"Toby," he said, his voice muffled beneath his hands.

"Oh," repeated John. This time he punched in 8629 and was greeted with a chime as the phone unlocked.

"Why her, why her, he _can't_ hurt her," he heard Sherlock mutter, his hands still covering his face.

"You're saying he can't hurt Molly now?" asked John, starting to go through the menus.

There was no reply, and for several seconds the only sounds in the room were the soft, melodic beepings of the keys as John continued his search.

"Sherlock," he said finally, "there's nothing here."

He got no reply.

"I don't mean I don't think I'm finding anything, I'm saying there's _nothing here_!" he explained, holding out the phone.

Taking his hands from his face, the other man reached out to accept it. He punched in a few buttons as well, and then nodded.

"Everything has been erased off of it," he said, softly.

He remained still for a few more seconds, deep in thought.

"But everything else is here," he said, shutting off the phone and tossing it into the bag before replacing the purse into the drawer.

"As long as we're here, I might as well go through everything else," he said, pulling out the next drawer.

Though he wasn't quite sure why, John began to feel just a tad uncomfortable at the sight of the detective going through Molly's things this way. When he got to the underwear drawer, John found himself feeling even more embarrassed as he realized that there were some quite lacy and scanty items to be found there, things that he would never have imagined the shy Miss Hooper to own. Turning away with a slight cough, his gaze fell on the other side of the room, and he saw that there was a large, cushioned cat bed on the floor.

"Sherlock!"

At the sound of his voice, the other man stopped what he was doing and hurried over to his side. John was now kneeling down next to the cat bed.

"I thought you said he hates things like this," he said, pointing at a large fabric-covered toy in the shape of a mouse lying on the cushion.

"He does, or did," replied Sherlock.

John picked up the toy by a tail.

"Then what's a catnip mouse doing here?" asked John.

"What indeed?" said Sherlock, reaching out his hand to grab it. As his hand closed around the toy, both men were surprised to see the cloth body collapse under the light touch of his fingertips.

"It's empty!"

"Well, it's definitely not stuffed with catnip anymore," said Sherlock, turning it over in his hands.

"Would Molly have opened it up to take the catnip out?" John asked.

"No, there would still have been enough coating the fabric to make it odious to Toby," replied Sherlock. "But it's definitely been opened up and restitched."

"Why?"

"To put something else in it."

In a flash, he had pulled out a penknife and began to break apart the tiny line of stitches. Opening it up carefully, he stared inside of it for a moment before reaching in to pick something out of it.

It was another piece of pink paper, folded so tightly that it took Sherlock a few tries to get it open without tearing it.

"What is it?"

"A picture of Toby," said Sherlock, bringing it close to his face as he sank down to sit on the bed.

"But no words written on it?" John asked, craning his neck to see.

"Just six," he said, handing it over to him.

John looked down at the paper and read aloud:

"_I tawt I taw a tabby."_

"Memories indeed," Sherlock murmured, biting down on his lip. Stuffing the paper and the remnants of the toy into his coat pocket, he got to his feet.

John looked at him with a mixture of pride and irritation as he realized it appeared he had just experienced an epiphany.

"Memories of Warner Brothers cartoons?" asked John.

"You've no idea what this means?" Sherlock asked.

"No."

"Excellent."

With a satisfied nod of his head, he shot out of the room, John following quickly behind. Shutting off the lights that he had turned on as he passed through the flat, he paused momentarily at the door to set the lock on the doorknob before waving John on into the hallway.

"Leaving it as we found it, then?"

"Yes."

Taking out his cell phone, he made a call.

"Lestrade? I'm finished. You can send your team in. By the way, I hope that's not going to include Anderson. Oh, he's still finishing up with Matthews? Wonderful. What did we find? Well, it seems that whoever was in her apartment must have let her cat out, so we're going to search the neighborhood for it."

Winking at John, he turned off the cell and headed down the stairs to the ground floor.

"Why don't you want Lestrade-"

"I'll let him know when he's needed," Sherlock barked.

As they emerged out of the building, Sherlock turned up his collar in that familiar gesture of his.

"You know you look ridiculous enough as it is," John groused. "Wearing a coat like that on a hot summer's day without doing that as well. People will think you're absolutely daft.

"Well, there's always a method to my madness, isn't there?"

"So, we're going cat-hunting?" he asked, following the detective as he began to walk briskly down the sidewalk.

"No, we're going to a branch of my bank to get some money,"

"There's an ATM right there," said John, pointing it out.

"_Lots_ of money," replied Sherlock, "more than you can withdraw from an ATM in a day."

"You mean that was actually a ransom note that you found in the mouse?"

"Not in the way you mean, but yes, I have decided that I am going to have to pay a rather high price in order to get Molly home safely."

Knowing that it was useless to question him further, John followed along in silence as they made their way to the bank, and sat in the lobby on a bench while Sherlock met with a bank manager. It took almost half an hour before the detective reappeared before him.

"That took long enough," he remarked, getting to his feet.

"It was such a large amount of money that I needed Mycroft's permission to withdraw it," Sherlock said, making a face.

"Ah." John had long suspected that Sherlock's family had not been poor, but that a combination of his addictive and erratic habits had meant that whatever money he had inherited was in a trust fund kept under strict control by Mycroft as the trustee, adding to their already inherently prickly relationship.

"Here you are," he said, handing him some notes that he was separating from a quite large stack of money. "That's the one-hundred and twenty pounds I borrowed this morning, plus another hundred and fifty."

"What's the extra for," said John, accepting the notes and pulling out his wallet. "Oh," he said, as he raised his head and realized that Sherlock was holding out a list for him.

"Milk(_Patterson's_), Beans(_Mc Duffy's_), Coffee(_Merritt's_)." He broke off and looked up at his friend, outraged. "It's a bloody shopping list."

"As you said earlier today, John, we are desperately in need of groceries."

"Not only that, you put down a different store for each item. You're having me run all over London on a Monday morning when traffic is horrendous when I could buy all these things on that small shop around the corner from Baker Street. I'm not going to need the extra money for the groceries; I'll need it to pay the bloody taxi fares."

"I may not eat all the time, John, but when I do I can be very particular."

"Just what are you going to be doing while I'm running up and down the whole of London?"

He hesitated just a fraction of a second too long.

"I have things to do as well."

"You're running off to do something stupid again, aren't you? Like breaking into that dentist's office by yourself instead of having me help you. You know what? I have things to do as well. Think I'll go out and have myself a big breakfast, and then spend the rest of the day at a nice pub, going through the papers looking for another place to live since I'm obviously not qualified to help you anymore."

Turning away, he pushed the lobby door open and walked out into the street.

"John. John!"

He ignored him. But after walking half a block, he felt Sherlock's hand on his shoulder, forcing him to stop and look around at him.

"You're angry," he stated, simply.

"No, I'm not angry, I'm hurt!" John yelled back.

On a crowded London street, most of the pedestrians kept their eyes firmly fixed on the horizon or at the ground, but the remark had caused a few of the passersby to lift their eyebrows. For once, John didn't give a damn if anyone thought they were a gay couple having a spat.

"You told Mycroft, your perennially disapproving brother, exactly what's going on, didn't you? Laid out your whole plan, 'cause that was the only way he would agree to give you that money."

He found assent in Sherlock's silence.

"But me, your friend, your _only friend_, and the guy that's been helping you for years, me you don't trust."

Sherlock sighed and went to raise the collar on his coat again.

"Would you stop doing that!" John hissed, raising his hand.

Sherlock caught his hand in his own fist and forced it down.

"He could be watching."

"What?"

Perplexed, John allowed his hand to fall to his side.

"We've had a surveillance camera planted in the flat before. Who is to say that it isn't bugged again this time, along with Molly's flat and the morgue at University College Hospital?"

John looked skeptical. "What about the bank?"

Sherlock leaned in slightly. "The security camera was in the corner behind me, I kept my back to it the entire time we were speaking. In case you're wondering, there's a security camera right across the street from us at the moment-don't look!"

Remembering the night he had met Mycroft, John had to concede that someone like Moriarty could co-opt that system just as easily as the elder Holmes had done.

Nodding thoughtfully, John suddenly remembered the scene in "_2001: A Space Odyssey_ where the astronauts, suspecting the super-computer Hal has a serious malfunction, have retreated to an inner air-lock in order for their conversation not be overheard. He remembered the shiver that had run through him at the shot which showed Hal's unnervingly unblinking red light filling the frame and then switched to a close up of the astronaut's mouths as the malevolent machinery read their lips.

"Don't want Hal eavesdropping on us, then, eh?" he said, finally realizing that Sherlock was using the upraised collar to prevent someone from reading his lips.

"What?" he replied, looking genuinely mystified.

_Really, the things you are ignorant about_.

" _2001_, famous movie, evil computer named Hal? Oh, never mind, I suppose since it dealt tangentially with solar systems, you couldn't be bothered to remember it."

"So," John said, smiling, as he pointed at the collar. "This is not just an affectation this time."

"Though, of course, it also makes me look cool," he admitted, giving him a smile in return.

Pulling the collar up slightly as he dipped his head, he leaned in to whisper, keeping his lips as neutral as possible. "I think I have deduced a pattern here, John. But I need to go and think this out carefully, trying to anticipate his every move, but having back up plans in case I need to make adjustments. Molly's life depends on him continuing to think that I am indeed a little off my game and slow. When the next events unfold, I suspect there will be a continually quickening pace. It is essential that I keep you in the dark as much as possible for awhile, because your spontaneously surprised reactions will help convince him that I have not yet put the pieces together. Do you understand?"

"I think I do…or don't, whichever is the proper answer."

Sherlock raised both of his hands to John's shoulders. "It's not because I don't trust you that I ask you to do this. It's precisely because I do trust you, that you will loyally follow my directions even if you don't understand them. Now, that's something Mycroft would never do."

Dropping his hands, he fished the list out of his pocket and handed it to him.

"Off you go, then."

John looked down and read the list again and then sighed.

_Really, twelve stores for twelve items?_"

"Not allowed to improvise at all on this?" he asked wistfully, looking up.

"No." Turning his back, Sherlock hurried on his way in the opposite direction. "It really shouldn't take you more than four and a half hours," he called back over his shoulder.

Stuffing the list into his pocket, John watched until Sherlock's slim, dark figure disappeared into the crowd.

_Look, just please do one thing for me, would you? Don't be standing on a rooftop the next time I see you._

"What?"

To his surprise, he realized he had said the words aloud and a woman was staring, wondering if he was simply insane or trying out the strangest pick-up line in the world on her.

"Nothing, just talking to…myself," he answered, sadly.


	5. Chapter 5: The Rematch

**Chapter 5: The Rematch**

"More like five and a half hours," he muttered, glancing at his watch with a frown as the cab pulled up to the curb at Baker Street.

With the closing off of several streets around St. Bart's due to the bombing, the London traffic had been even more hideous than usual for a Monday.

"What?" said the cabby, turning back to look at him.

"Nothing, nothing," replied John, glancing up at the amount shown on the meter as he dug out his wallet yet again.

Extracting his last remaining bill from the wallet, he placed it into the driver's hand and saw that he was still holding it out expectantly.

"Yeah, give me a minute," he said, picking up his bags and getting out of the car. Putting the bags down on the sidewalk, he dug down deep into his pockets for change.

"There you go," he said, finally, leaning over to start dumping the coins into the cabby's hand.

"Oi, all change?"

"It's either that or nothing," John shouted, in frustration.

The driver took the change and then muttered something under his breath as he drove off.

John picked up the bags and began to walk towards the door, but just as he got to the step, he heard another car pull up behind him. Glancing back, he was amazed to see that not only was it a police car, but that Sergeant Sally Donovan was driving it.

"What's going on?" he asked, as she walked towards him.

Throwing him a disdainful glance, she threw back her head and sneered: "Apparently my whole department's taking orders from the freak now."

There had been a very brief truce between Sherlock and Donovan after his reappearance from the dead, but any goodwill that had been generated between the two had clearly vaporized faster than Anderson's deodorant.

"What do you mean?" he asked opening the door.

Pushing past him, she stepped into the hallway and began to fume.

"Well, first of all, Anderson got called in to assist in that autopsy after your friend dashed off to do something 'more interesting'," she said, holding up her fingers like quotation marks, "and now I have to be a chauffeur."

"Oh, hello!"

John turned to see his landlady's head poking out of her doorway. "John, dear, did you just get home?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. "

"You ready yet?" Sally interrupted, rudely.

"Oh, so you're the nice lady who's going to drive me?" said Mrs. Hudson.

"Yeah, lucky me."

John stood, opened mouth, looking back between the two of them.

"Well, I'm all packed!" she assured her, brightly. Disappearing for a moment, she reemerged carrying two small suitcases in her hand. "Oh, I do hope this is enough, so hard to tell with this strange weather we've been having, but Sherlock said it really shouldn't be too long."

"Well, he's the expert," Sally replied, shortly.

Turning around, the sergeant stormed back out the door.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, let me help you," insisted John, hastily putting down the groceries so that he could take the suitcases from her.

"Oh, thank you, John," she said, smiling gratefully. "You know, I really don't mind, they're quite small, but after all-"

"Your hip," he said, nodding sympathetically.

Pausing at the door, she looked out at Donovan. The policewoman had opened up the back passenger door and the boot, but was leaning against the side of the car, arms crossed angrily in front of her, and making no effort to assist them.

"You know, I don't think she likes Sherlock very much," Mrs. Hudson whispered to John.

Nodding his head in agreement, he waited for her to make her way from the step onto the sidewalk before speaking again.

"Are you going to your sister's?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

"Oh, I don't know, dear, they won't tell me where I'm going," she said, looking up at him.

"Couldn't tell you if I wanted to," Donovan harrumphed, as John put the suitcases into the boot.

In response to his questioning look, she continued: "My orders are to drive around London until I receive a text message from the freak, telling me where I can take her. Oh, and I'm supposed to take evasive maneuvers if I think anyone's following me. Waste of gas and my time, if you ask me."

As she got behind the wheel, John turned to face Mrs. Hudson, his hand on the door frame. "Don't worry, you'll be fine," he assured her.

"Oh, I'm sure I will be. You take care of yourself, and of _him_," she said, glancing up at the windows of their flat. "He's very concerned about that lovely girl," she said.

"The only thing he's ever concerned about is his bloody reputation," replied Donovan.

As John slammed the door shut for her, he saw that Mrs. Hudson's mouth was set in a grim disapproving line, and her normally kind eyes were glaring icily at the back of Donovan's head as they drove off.

"_Well, that's going to be a lovely little ride._

Going back into the building he picked up the groceries again and walked up the flight of steps. As he walked into the living room, he could see that Sherlock was sitting on one of the two facing armchairs, contemplating the chess board. Glancing over, John could see that all the pieces were in starting position. Although he wanted to ask why he had felt it necessary to send Mrs. Hudson away so suddenly, he remembered his friend's earlier comment about the possibility of their flat being bugged.

"I'm back!" he announced, cheerfully.

Sherlock sat back in his chair, his frown deepening as he continued to study the board.

"I'll just put everything away, then," he said, shrugging.

Stepping into the kitchen, he swiftly unpacked the groceries and put them away. Going back out to the other room, he saw that Sherlock had switched to the other chair, though none of the pieces had been moved.

"Interesting game?" he asked, dryly.

"Still in the stages of figuring out my opponent's strategy," he replied.

For a brief moment, he glanced up at John, before turning back to stare intently at the board.

"You look exhausted, John, why don't you take a nap?"

"Well, I am a bit tired, but I can stay up if you need me."

"Oh, no," he said, waving him off with his hand. "It'll be several hours at least before anything else will happen."

"Right," he said, watching as Sherlock got up and switched seats again.

He had turned around and was headed toward the landing when he suddenly remembered that his room was a mess, with the mouse traps scattered and sprung all over the place as they had searched it previously.

"You don't happen to know if Mrs. Hudson had time to, uh, clean up my room, do you?"

"No, she was just about to when I sent her away."

"Okay, great." He really had neither the desire nor energy to attempt a clean-up himself at the moment.

"Think I'll just have a lie-down here, then," he said, gesturing at the couch.

"Good idea."

John sat down on the couch, kicking off his shoes, and then lay down, propping one of the accent pillows under his head. It was a comfortable couch, and since he was considerably shorter than Sherlock, he could stretch out as he lay on it. Closing his eyes, he felt himself slipping into an exhausted sleep.

Then he heard Sherlock get up once more.

"Can I ask you something?" he said, opening his eyes.

Sherlock nodded.

"Well, you're obviously playing a game in your head, visualizing where all the pieces are?"

"Naturally."

"Well, if you can do all that without physically moving any of the pieces, why do you need to keep switching back and forth? "

"One must never underestimate the importance of fully appreciating your opponent's point of view."

"Oh, of course," said John, closing his eyes again.

"That's why whenever I play with you, I wait until you get up to turn the board around and kneel down on the floor, to see the board as you see it."

"I'm not that short," protested John.

"Yes you are. And don't snore," he ordered, "I need to concentrate."

"I'll do my best," he said, his words muffled by an uncontrollable yawn.

#/#/#

It seemed like just seconds later that he was suddenly jolted out of sleep. But the room was now completely dark. Glancing to his side, there was just enough light coming in through the windows to see that the chessboard was sitting exactly as it was before. However, Sherlock was no longer sitting in either chair.

John jumped to his feet, cursing himself for believing that Sherlock would have urged him to take a nap simply to get his rest. Mrs. Hudson had already been bundled off, just as Sherlock had sent him off on a wild goose chase the last time he was about to face his worst enemy. Had it all been a ruse to lull him into complacence while he ran off to confront Moriarty on his own?

"Sherlock!" he yelled, even as he stumbled over the coffee table in his haste to check out the rest of the flat.

"Yes, John," replied his friend's deep voice from the kitchen. "Nightmares?" he asked, as his silhouette loomed into view in the kitchen doorway.

"No," he said, unable to keep the tone of deep relief out of his voice. "I just wanted to make sure you hadn't gone out."

"Don't worry," Sherlock said, as he drew nearer, "I promise you will be at my side for the rest of this journey." He paused to switch on a lamp. "Here," he said, holding out a cup, "I've made you coffee."

"No drugs in it this time?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Just caffeine," he assured him.

John took a sip from the cup as he sat down. "It's good," he said, as Sherlock returned with another cup in his hand.

"Here you are," he said, handing John's revolver to him. "I've made sure it's loaded."

Being the good soldier that he was, John still took the time to double check that before clicking the gun shut again and placing it before him on the table.

"You think I'll be needing this tonight?" he asked, nodding toward the table.

"I should think it highly probable."

Sherlock sat down as well and took several long drinks of the steaming liquid.

"Is your game finished?" John asked, nodding toward the board.

"Obviously not," he replied, his mouth muffled by the coffee cup.

"Worthier opponent than I am, then?"

"Oh, don't disparage your abilities, John, you have come closer than most to actually beating me at the game. Ah!"

Rising to his feet, he put down the cup and hurried over to the window. John was not sure what had drawn him there, but he followed quickly after. Looking down, he saw a taxi coming down the street, just beginning to slow down and pull in toward the curb.

"Is that for us?" he asked, glancing up at his friend.

"Of course," he replied. "That's why his light is off; he's not looking for a fare, because he already has one."

Hurrying back to the other side of the room, he picked up his coat and put it on.

"You called while I was asleep?"

"No," he said, as he fastened his scarf around his neck.

John stepped back to the coffee table and put the gun into the back of his belt, pulling his shirt over it. As much as it would have been better to cover it with a jacket as well, he was sweating enough as it was already. How in the world could Sherlock bear that heavy coat?

John followed Sherlock down the steps.

"You were fully expecting this?" he asked.

"Of course."

Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, he turned back and smiled as they heard knocking upon the front door.

"I tink I heaw a _tabby_,"he said.

John's jaw dropped. "The clue meant 'cabby', not 'tabby'?" he asked.

Sherlock clucked his tongue. "John, since you correctly identified the quote's origin as a Warner Brothers cartoon, I was sure you were familiar with Tweety Bird's idiosyncratic pronunciation," he chided, as he opened up the door.

John stepped back, his hand already going toward his gun.

The man standing in front of them wore a cabby's badge, but in no other respects did he resemble the last cabdriver to arrive unannounced at their doorstep. This man was young, in his early thirties, painfully thin, with a scraggly beard and unkempt hair.

"Cab for Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson."

"Yes, we were expecting you," Sherlock assured him with a smile. "Please return to your cab, we won't be a minute. Just have to lock up."

John followed him out onto the stoop and then leaned near to whisper as Sherlock bent down to lock the door: "Please tell me we aren't headed to Roland-Kerr Further Education College," he begged.

"Of course we are, John," he replied, looking slightly amused. "Why else would I have made sure you had your pistol? It appears that our opponent was not satisfied with how that last game ended and wishes to have a rematch."

"You said he wouldn't kill you yet!" John began, as Sherlock strode toward the cab.

"Patience, John," he said, pulling the door open.

Watson reluctantly walked around the cab to let himself in on the other side. Immediately after his door shut, the cabby started to move the taxi away from the curb.

John glanced at the meter.

"Your meter's not running," he said.

"Oh, don't worry. I'm sure our driver is being well-compensated in advance for this evening."

They travelled in silence for the rest of the trip. John felt his stomach turn slightly queasy as they came down the street that led to the twin buildings of the College. As the cab came to a stop, Sherlock opened his door and sprang out. John followed immediately, moving to meet his friend at the front of the car.

"He's not getting out?" he asked, gesturing back toward the taxi.

"Of course not. This one is not a serial killer, he's just a cab driver. Albeit one who's willing to do this irregular service on his night off because he's being well-paid by an anonymous source. Though that fee will hardly begin to make a dent in the massive gambling debt that he's managed to amass."

"Racing form on the front seat?"

"Torn tickets on the dash."

The tall man moved towards the building on the right, stopping to turn back to John as he attempted to follow.

"No, your building is over there," he reminded him, pointing at the building on the left.

"Not this time."

"Yes," he insisted, shaking his head firmly. "John," he added, lowering his voice, "everything has got to start out just as it did last time."

"I don't like this."

"I'm depending on you to be my sniper again, John. It only makes sense to give yourself the best vantage point."

John reluctantly nodded his head and waited a few seconds for Sherlock to go through the front door of the building before he turned and sprinted towards the other. He took the stairs much more quickly than he had the last time, when he had just abandoned his cane. Springing up several stairs at a time, he remembered exactly which floor to go to, but then stood in the hallway for a moment, trying to recall which room he had to enter. It took him several tries, and even then he was fearful that he had chosen incorrectly as he could not see any lights on in the rooms across the way.

Then a light suddenly flickered on in one of the rooms, and John squinted to make out the details. Sherlock was in the same room that he had been in before, but this time he was not faced with another man. Instead, in the middle of the table, sat a wire cage, topped by a jumble of wires and blinking lights. Inside the cage, meowing piteously, was a tabby mask-and-mantle cat.

Sherlock looked up to make eye contact with John across the way as his friend mouthed: "Toby?"

He took a moment to loosen his scarf and unbutton the top two buttons of his coat before making a slow circuit around the table. The cat followed his every move, rubbing his face along the cage as the man circled around him.

Looking back up, Sherlock nodded.

John dropped his eyes and to his horror he saw that on one side of the cage, there was a bowl with food, just out of reach of the caged animal. Directly in front of the bowl there was a glass bottle containing a single pill and a second identical bottle perched near the edge of the table.

Catching his eye again, John took out his cell phone and opened it, miming for Sherlock to do the same. In return, his friend shook his head and pointed at the top of the cage.

"Remote," he said, using his finger to simulate a gun pointing at it.

John nodded, understanding that he was afraid that the bomb would be set off by a remote device if he attempted to communicate with him using the phone.

By now the cat was up on its haunches, desperately trying to get Sherlock to pet him through the wires. Remembering the full food bowl they had found at Molly's flat, John had to marvel at the extent of the cat's fondness for him. Toby seemed to be more interested in Sherlock than the bowl of food sitting in front of the cage even though he was probably starving. After a moment, Sherlock carefully put his hand down to stroke against the top of the cat's head, and although John was certain it was to make sure that it was indeed Toby, he began to suspect that his friend was not entirely devoid of affection for the cat.

Removing his scarf and stuffing it into one of the pockets, Sherlock unbuttoned the rest of his coat and sat down in a chair, facing the cat. Pointing at both bottles at once, and then at the bowl, he looked back over at John.

He nodded in understanding. Apparently the only way they could get Toby out of the cage without blowing him to pieces would be if Sherlock would feed him one of the pills by pouring it over the food and then pushing it close enough for the cat to eat. Whether it was a live or dead cat that came out of the cage would depend on the detective choosing the right pill.

His friend looked back and forth between the two bottles several times and then reached over to pick up the one that was closest to the cage. Removing the cap, he took out the pill and held it between his forefinger and thumb, squinting up at it.

It was exactly the same gesture he had made so many months before, when John had been driven to shoot the cabby through the window to stop him from swallowing the pill. Although he knew that Sherlock was not the one in direct danger this time, he still felt uneasy, and went to pull out the gun from his belt.

Putting the pill down, Sherlock reached out for the second bottle, removing the pill from it and examining it as well before laying it down on the table to the right of the first one. Raising his left hand to his chin, he drummed the fingers of his right hand nervously as his eyes continue to dart between the two capsules.

Suddenly coming to a decision, he reached out to grab the food bowl closer to him and picked up the pill on the left. John watched closely as his pale white fingers grasped either side, preparing to open up the pill over the food.

But before the halves came apart, however, he suddenly stopped and sat upright again. John felt his own heart beginning to beat furiously fast as he realized that he was bringing the pill close to his face, his tongue outstretched to catch a few of the granules first before he put it into the bowl.

"No!" John screamed, though of course he could not be heard.

_You're not going to sacrifice yourself for a bloody cat, not even Molly's bloody cat._

He was still trying to pry the capsule apart when the shot rang out. Although it was aimed well over the top of Sherlock's head and far away from the bomb, it was close enough to have its desired effect, which was to have his friend drop the pill as he automatically flinched away from the sound. The pill, still in one piece, bounced off the table and skittered off unto the floor.

Sherlock turned to look at John, pure rage upon his face, but was met which John's implacable stare as he aimed the gun towards him, his meaning clear.

_You try that again, and I'll take my chances wounding you._

Sherlock opened his mouth to yell something, but then suddenly his head snapped back to look at the cage.

The lights had stopped blinking and had now all turned a steady red in color. An LED had flickered to life in the middle of the wiring and had begun a countdown:

_60…..59…..58….._

"Get out!" John yelled.

Since he had raised his own window to make the shot, and there was a hole in the one across the way, he knew that he would be heard.

Sherlock shook his head, and once more pointed toward the cat.

John felt helpless. There was no longer any point in trying to wound his friend. Even if he succeeded in disabling him, there was no way he could run over to the other building to pull him out of the room before the bomb went off. There was a siren sounding somewhere in the distance, perhaps someone was already responding to the sound of the shot, but they too would be too late to have any chance of stopping this tragedy unfolding before his eyes.

Turning his back on him, the detective ran a hand through his hair, apparently searching in desperation to see where the pill had landed. After a few tense seconds, he suddenly dove for the floor and emerged momentarily with the capsule in his hand. Tearing the halves apart over the food bowl, he shoved it over to the cage.

But the cat, alarmed by the bullet, was now cowering in fear in one of the opposite corners. Sherlock glanced again at the clock as it hit _'30'_ and continued counting downward. The detective grimaced in frustration and then reached in to scoop some of the food out of the bowl with his bare fingers. Rounding the table, he slowly moved towards the cat, his lips moving as he seemed to make soothing noises to calm the poor creature. Toby watched him warily but remained still as he slowly inched his fingers through the bar. Then, after a moment that seemed like an eternity, the cat finally tilted its head and began to lick the food from his fingers.

John's eyes flicked back to the top of the cage. The countdown had stopped with five seconds left on the display. He looked back down as the cat continued to hungrily lick off the last traces of food from his friend's fingers, his eyes closed in trust and pleasure as he savored the taste.

Sherlock slowly withdrew his hand from the cage, and then both he and John started slightly as the whole front of the cage suddenly opened up and clanged down onto the table. Raising his eyes back to his friend, they exchanged a sigh of relief as John lowered his revolver. Sherlock smiled and reached in to remove the cat from its cage.

But Toby was no longer licking and purring in contentment. He had fallen on his side, his whole body convulsing in terrible spasms as a foamy vomit formed on his lips.

Groaning, John replaced the gun in his belt before he dashed out of the room and headed for the stairs. His sides were aching by the time he reached the other building, but before he could open the door, it was pushed open from the inside.

Sherlock walked out, his face white as chalk, as he snapped off his cell phone.

"I've called in the forensics team," he said. "Anderson has graciously agreed to handle the toxicology testing on his body."

For once, there was no trace of irony in his tone as he spoke of the man he so clearly loathed.

"Okay, but what about the bomb squad," John asked, in between gasps as he still tried to catch his breath.

"Not needed," he said, shortly.

"Not needed?"

"Not needed!" he yelled, rounding on him furiously. 'That was nothing but a tumble of colored lights, empty plastic canisters and a timer, all meant to drive me into making a hasty decision. Had I simply let the timer get down to zero, nothing would have happened. Nothing!"

"Look, I know you're upset right now," he said, trying desperately to cheer him up. "But after all, it was just…"

"Just a cat," Sherlock said, laughing humourlessly. "Just Molly's beloved cat."

Striding over to the cab that was still waiting for him, he raised his hands and knocked loudly on the glass. The cabby stared at him for a moment, and then reluctantly rolled down the window. John could feel the wave of cool air float out from the air-conditioned interior.

"I failed," Sherlock said.

"What?" the driver said, looking mystified.

"I failed," repeated the detective, this time between gritted teeth. "Does that change our next destination?"

The cabby slowly shook his head.

"My orders were to wait and take you home again," he said.

"No matter the outcome?"

Again he was met with a blank look.

"Very well."

He turned back and glared in anger at the building.

"It appears he was not content to merely replay the game. He had to ensure the outcome this time as well."

"What do you mean?" asked John.

"Well, we'll have to wait for toxicology to confirm it," said Sherlock grimly, as he went to open the taxi door, "but I suspect that both pills contained poison this time."

_Author's note: If you don't know already, the BBC has thoughtfully provided an actual website for Molly, along with John's blog and Sherlock's Science of Deduction website. There is a picture of 'Toby' posted on the February 2 entry for Molly's site. _


	6. Chapter 6: A Little Knife Music

**Chapter 6: A Little Knife Music**

John stared at him for a moment, trying to take in the meaning of his words. If both pills had been poisoned, then…

"Well, then there really wasn't any way for you to win," John said, trying to console him.

"Shut up, John!" he hissed.

Giving up, John opened up the door on his side and got in.

"You want to take another cab home?" he asked.

"No money," replied Sherlock.

"Great, since when did that stop you?"

They rode in silence for awhile, John focusing his attention on making sure that they were indeed, heading back to 221B Baker Street as the driver had promised. He glanced over at Sherlock, who was staring dully, unseeing, out of his window.

He coughed, hating to break the silence but having to ask the question.

"You did, uh, wash your hands off, didn't you?"

Sherlock sighed and turned to glare at him. "Yes, there was a sink in the corner," he replied. "I even wiped them off on my scarf."

John's eyes dropped to Sherlock's neck, noticing for the first time that his throat was bare.

In answer to John's upraised eyebrows, he rolled his eyes. "I had no desire to go around with either poison or cat spittle all over my hands, and there were no paper towels in the dispenser. Then I threw the towel over To-, over it."

John nodded and remained silent for the rest of the trip.

As soon as the cab had come to a stop in front of the curb, John had reached over to open his door. But Sherlock had remained behind, glaring at the back of the cabby's head.

"No further message for us?" he finally asked.

The driver met his eyes in the rearview mirror, looking as blank as he had for the vast majority of their time together and shook his head.

Sherlock slowly got out of the taxi and followed John to their front door.

"Oh, god," said John, patting his pockets as he heard Sherlock's footsteps behind him. "I forgot my bloody keys."

"Probably fell out of your pocket when you fell asleep," grumbled Sherlock, digging his own keys out of his pocket and letting them into the flat.

John had already gone up several of the steps before he realized Sherlock was still standing in the vestibule.

"Something wrong?" he asked, somewhat alarmed by the rather vacant expression on his friend's face.

"Maybe they didn't, maybe it's a clue!" he yelled, suddenly reanimated as he pushed past John and bounded up the stairs, leaving the front door standing wide open.

"Just invite the bastard in, why don't you?" thought John, as he hurried back down to close the door before climbing the stairs as well.

Sherlock's coat was tossed carelessly onto the floor, and he had to step around it as he entered the living room.

"Damn!" Sherlock was just straightening up from bending over the sofa. "Nope, just caught in between the cushions," he said, showing the keys to John before throwing them down on the sofa table. With a loud clang, they landed on the hard wood surface.

"So, what do we do now?" asked John, as Sherlock sank down upon the sofa.

"Wait for him to send the next clue."

"Do you think it will be soon?" he said, remembering what he had said previously.

"Yes, John, I think it will be very soon, because he will no doubt want to gloat over my obvious failure."

John nodded and then cleared his throat. "Maybe we need to let Lestrade in on this."

"Are you losing faith in my abilities as well, John?"

"Of course not."

"Because if you are I would be perfectly happy to tell you exactly where you went for lunch today and what you had and how pretty the waitress was."

John opened his mouth to protest again that he was not questioning his capabilities when suddenly Sherlock's cell phone began to ring. With a single gesture, Sherlock motioned for him to be quiet and take a seat.

As John sank down onto the cushion beside him, Sherlock laid the phone in front of them on the coffee table.

_Blocked call_, the screen announced.

"Concentrate, John," he said, quietly, as he moved to answer the phone before it could ring again.

"Hello," he said, his voice controlled and even.

There was a pause before a halting, quavering voice began to speak:

"H-h-hello, s-sexy."

"Oh, god," John whispered, rising to his feet. "Not another old lady."

Sherlock waved him into silence again.

"Is this one blind as well?" he asked, coolly.

"N-no, but she is in a wheelchair."

John looked aghast, but Sherlock scoffed audibly.

"Oh, and is she also wrapped up in Christmas lights like Toby was?"

"Are you willing to take that chance?"

"Why are you even giving me another chance," he challenged, as John gazed worriedly at him, "haven't I already lost the game by failing at the first task?"

"I'm feeling quite g-generous tonight, I'm willing to continue if you get this next one right."

"How very philanthropic of you," he sneered.

"Of course, I'll have to give you a time penalty."

Sherlock glanced up at John before continuing.

"What do you mean?" he asked, still managing to keep a tone of only slight interest in his voice.

"I gave you a twelve hour headstart last time, this time it'll be shorter."

"How short?"

There was a rather long pause.

"Three."

John looked down at his watch. It was now 10 o'clock. That meant they would have until 1 am to figure out the next clue.

"All right," said Sherlock, nodding.

"M-minutes."

"What?" said John, feeling his heart beginning to race. He looked over at Sherlock, but his friend was staring down at the phone.

"What's the clue?" he said hoarsely.

A moment later they both jumped back as a loud, discordant screeching of violins filled the air. Their eyes locked and this time John knew he wouldn't have to identify the piece of music to the detective.

"Psycho!" they called out in unison.

For all the tension, John could not help a tiny grin from forming on his face. Sherlock may have been ignorant of Kubrick and Knight, but apparently Herrmann and Hitchcock had both earned permanent residence in his mind palace.

The music abruptly stopped.

"Three minutes," the quavery voice whispered again.

"Psycho!" John shouted again, thinking they hadn't been heard over the music.

But Sherlock was already shaking his head.

"That's the clue, not the answer," he said, looking around.

"T-two minutes and fifty seconds."

"That means it has to be here, in this building, there's no time for it to be anywhere else."

Their eyes met again, and once more a simultaneous thought seemed to spring into both of their minds.

"Shower!" they cried, together.

Sherlock turned to run down the hall, with John on his heels until the detective suddenly turned around and pointed back into the living room.

"Bring the phone!" he shouted, as he ran on down the hallway.

John snatched up the phone and had just rounded the corner in the bathroom as Sherlock was reaching out to open the curtain. In a quick flashback to the sudden panic he had felt this morning when he had drawn Molly's shower curtain aside, John suddenly wished he had thought to take out his pistol as well.

Both men leapt back in surprise as the curtain was drawn to the side and a figure suddenly slid forward and fell against the side of the bathtub.

"What the hell?" said John.

It was not a person but a life-size male dummy, dressed in a suit, that was slumped against the porcelain.

"Two minutes, twenty seconds."

Sherlock grabbed the phone from John's hand.

"Body, dummy, fake suicide, Henry Fishguard!" he rattled off.

"Two minutes, ten seconds."

It sounded like the old lady was crying now.

John and Sherlock's eyes met yet again.

"It's not it, it's a red herring," Sherlock said.

"Or a MacGuffin!" John added.

"Two minutes."

"What other famous scene is there?" asked Sherlock. John held his hand to his forehead for a moment.

"The insurance guy, on the stairs."

Taking the phone with him, Sherlock pushed past John once more. This time, his friend took a moment to retrieve his pistol before following him. Rushing down the first half-flight of stairs, he nearly collided with the detective, who was standing and staring down at the flight of stairs leading to the vestibule.

There was absolutely nothing there.

"One minute, thirty seconds,"

"Christ," muttered John.

"Please help me, he says he's going to b-blow me up!" the voice pleaded.

"Sherlock?" said John, as his eyes opened wider, "I hear her, I mean, obviously-"

He pointed toward the phone.

Sherlock nodded, realizing that he meant he was hearing a slight echo in between the sound of the old lady's voice within the building itself and its slight delay in coming through the cell phone speaker.

"Cellar, John, cellar, the scene with the sister, remember?" he cried, leaping down the half-flight and crashing on the landing.

He was headed towards the door of 221C as John made his way to the ground floor. Sherlock was already pulling uselessly at the doorknob.

"Locked!" he cried.

"I'll get the key from Mrs. Hudson," John said, heading toward her door.

"Gone, John, gone!" Sherlock hissed.

Taking a few steps back, he ran at the door and hit it with his right shoulder.

The door held firm.

"Wait, you'll need help," said John, rushing to his side and stuffing the gun back into his belt.

They positioned themselves so that each had his strongest side to the door, Sherlock's right and John's left.

"On three," John muttered.

"Forty-five seconds," the voice cried.

"One, two, three!"

This time the door bowed underneath their combined pressure, but although it shifted in its frame, it held in place.

Ignoring the pain searing through his shoulder, John cried: "Again. One…Two…Three!"

This time the door gave way, but so suddenly that John could not keep himself from pitching forward through the air as it sailed on down the steps. As it landed with a crash, he put out a hand to break his fall and yelled in pain as something jagged bit into the flesh of his palm. Sherlock had sailed through the air as well, but he was already pushing John aside as he struggled to regain his footing.

"Thirty seconds."

John got to his feet, struggling to make out anything in the dimly lit room. He sucked in his breath as he suddenly realized there was the figure of an old woman sitting in a wheelchair placed in the middle of the room, facing away from them. A multi-colored afghan was wrapped around her shoulders and her gray hair was pulled back into a bun. Sherlock's hand was reaching towards the handle of the wheelchair to turn her around. As the chair began to turn, John could not help yelling in surprise as the both the afghan and the gray hair suddenly fell away from her body as she was spun around.

As in the famous movie scene, it turned out to be a corpse, of course. But it was not the body of an old woman. Although the face was severely disfigured, it appeared to be a young man, in his thirties perhaps, dressed in a somber black suit with his dark hair combed neatly back from his forehead. On his lap was a box covered in wires, canisters and blinking lights.

"Twenty seconds."

The box was evidently a speaker, judging from the sound of the voice issuing from it.

Sherlock brought the phone up to his face.

"Who's that woman buried out in Greenlawn cemetery?" he asked, quoting a line from the movie.

The lights suddenly blinked out, leaving them in total darkness illuminated only by the faint light of his cell phone screen.

"Do you like my new voice-altering software?"

John shuddered upon hearing Moriarty's all-too-familiar Irish accent. He had been so certain that that evil voice had been stilled forever.

"Finally having the courage to use your own voice, Jim?" Sherlock asked.

"See you soon!" he cooed.

"Where?"

But there was no answer.

"He's hung up," said Sherlock, after a moment.

By now his vision was much clearer, and John bent down to retrieve the afghan from the floor.

"Her grandmother's?" he guessed.

"Of course," Sherlock replied.

John bent down to toss it onto the corpse's lap, but he suddenly stopped as he realized there was something underneath the hand that was laid across its lap.

"Sherlock," he said, reaching out to grab what appeared to be a short fluorescent bulb.

"A black light!" John said, holding it out to him.

Sherlock sniffed the air, turning in the direction of the wall behind him.

"And linseed oil!" he said, reaching out to grab the light and turn it on.

After a moment, white letters and symbols appeared on the wall.

John leaned forward to look at it. There was a large valentine-shaped heart, inside of which was written:

**S H**

**/**

**M H**

Underneath this there appeared:

_**2gether 4ever!**_

"Oh, god!" cried Sherlock, tossing the light aside. "Stupid, stupid! I just said the clue aloud to him! Who's buried in the cemetery? But it's Kensal Green, not Greenlawn. Come, John, we don't have a moment to lose!"

"Where are we going?" cried John, stumbling after him in the dark.

A moment later he was shielding his eyes as Sherlock flicked on the switch to illuminate the one small light fixture in the middle of the room's ceiling. He was standing on the remnants of the door, halfway up the stairs, pointing back towards the middle of the room.

"Do you really not know who that is?" he cried.

John glanced backward and felt himself growing faint.

At one time he had thought that the image of his best friend, his body lying smashed on the pavement, those challenging, flashing and brilliant eyes dulled forever and blood covering his pale and distinctive face, was going to be the worst thing he had ever seen. But he had been wrong. A few days later, he had been standing by his casket, staring down in agony.

It was bad enough that Mycroft had insisted that Sherlock's violin was far too valuable to be 'wasted' by burying with him, but to see that perennially untamed tumble of curls weighed down by pomade and slicked back neatly from his forehead in a much-too-conventional hairstyle had somehow disturbed him even more.

"You mean that's the body we buried in your grave?" he asked.

"Yes."

"But why would he dig him up?"

"To make room for Molly!" Sherlock cried.

At the sight of John's uncomprehending stare, he threw up his hands.

"The drawing, John!" he said, using his fingers to replicate the letters in the air. "SH over MH! He's put **M**olly **H**ooper underneath-"

"Oh, Jesus," said John, paling as the memory of stark white letters spelling out his friend's name upon a shiny black tombstone appeared before his eyes.

"_**Sherlock Holmes**__,"_ he gasped.

"Forever," Sherlock, finished, looking sick.

A moment later, he was sprinting toward the front door.


	7. Chapter 7: Guerrilla in the Mist

**Chapter 7: Guerrilla in the Mist**

He was out on the street by the time John caught up with him.

"You didn't even lock the door!" John exclaimed.

His own keys, he belatedly remembered, were still sitting on the coffee table.

"Damn the door!" he replied. "We need to get a taxi."

He stopped suddenly and groaned.

"But we need money," he said.

"Oh, god," said John, pulling out his wallet. "Do we have time for me to go to an ATM?"

"No."

Suddenly bending down, the detective pulled up his left trouser leg and retrieved something from the inner side of his sock.

"What's that?" asked John, as his friend extracted a small pouch containing a white powder from its hiding place.

"What do you think?" he replied.

"You keep it there?" John asked, following him as he disregarded traffic and crossed the street.

"Well, I can't keep it in the flat, can I? You and everyone else are constantly searching for it!" he complained. "Stand back!" he added.

John hesitated for a moment and watched in disbelief as he headed down the street.

_He must be going for that spaced-out looking kid hanging about the doorway._

But to his surprise, he went past the youth and sat down beside a well-dressed woman sitting on a bench and reading the _'Times'_. Although the woman first looked up at him with a startled expression, within the space of less than a minute, and with a minimum of words, the pouch had discreetly disappeared into her purse and his friend had been handed a large bill.

"More than enough for a taxi," he said, as he rejoined him.

"I would have thought the kid would have wanted it," began John.

"Well, yes, he's a junkie as well, but not able to afford stuff as prime as that was," Sherlock said.

Within another thirty seconds, they were inside a cab.

"Kensal Green cemetery," Sherlock told the driver. "The side entrance."

"They're not open at this time 'o night," the cabby protested. "You some of those ghosthunters?" he asked.

"Something like that," Sherlock murmured, drawing up the collar of his suit coat.

"You're not wearing your overcoat," John said.

"On a night as 'ot as this?" the cabby chuckled.

But John could not help but note that his friend was shivering slightly, regardless of the temperature.

They rode in silence, Sherlock handing the man the note and telling him to keep the change, drawing a delighted smile from the man as he drove off.

"How will we get home then?" asked John, watching as Sherlock tried unsuccessfully to open up the heavy locked gate in front of the entrance.

"I should think that's the least of our troubles at the moment," replied Sherlock, as he hoisted himself up and over the fence.

"Wait for me, damn it!" John shouted, once again cursing his lack of height as it took him longer to maneuver over the tall structure.

To his surprise, Sherlock was still waiting for him when he managed to jump onto the ground on the other side.

"John," he said, his voice unexpectedly tender as he reached out to grab him by the shoulders, "You may be faced with a difficult choice tonight."

"You know that I would rather die taking that bastard out than let him win," replied John, his own voice deep and even.

"And if it's a choice between my life and Molly's life?" asked Sherlock.

"Don't ask me to make that choice," pleaded John.

"I'm not the one who will be asking," said Sherlock, releasing his hold. "But just know that, as always, I know you will do the right thing."

A moment later he was off again, sprinting over the dewy grass.

John followed as fast as he could, but his short legs were no match for Sherlock's longer ones. On top of that, the temperature and humidity had combined to create a fog that was quickly rolling over the grounds, making it hard to see too far in front of him. At one point, he had managed to completely lose sight of him, depending upon his hearing and his own familiarity with the cemetery layout to make his way towards the grave. As he neared the site a park bench loomed out of the mist unexpectedly, and it was only with great difficulty that he kept himself from crashing into it. A second later, he realized it was occupied by a homeless drunk, as the smell of alcohol, piss and vomit waved over him as the man moaned and turned over on his side, an old dirty rag of a coat thrown over his face as he tried to sleep.

"This way!"

He followed the sound of Sherlock's voice and then stopped again as he leaned over and squinted.

The first thing he had seen were those stark white letters, standing out even in the fog and darkness. But then he realized that the grave was covered with a large wreath of white flowers as well.

_Rest In Peace_ was spelled out upon it.

Looking over at John, Sherlock nodded. His friend slowly approached and together they gingerly lifted the wreath off of the grave. Underneath, there was another pile of wires and plastic canisters, but this time there was only a single red light blinking off and on. Looking around the grave, John also saw that there was a definite outline, and with a sinking feeling he realized that there was clear evidence that the sod had recently been disturbed and then put back into place.

"Is it real this time?" asked John, pointing towards the wires.

Sherlock bent down and sniffed.

"I think so," he replied.

"Oh, it's real," said a familiar voice, from out of the fog. "So is this."

A red light suddenly appeared upon Sherlock's body, wavering slightly from side to side and a figure stepped forward out of the shadows.

"Don't try it, Dr. Watson," he said, as John's hand edged toward his gun. "Hands up, both of you."

John complied, but had to fight the impulse to rub his eyes as the man drew closer to them.

He had been expecting the slight figure of a dark-eyed man with slicked-back hair wearing an expensive suit and dress shoes. But the man standing in front of him was stocky, dressed in a maintenance jumpsuit and work boots, and his hair was a nondescript shade of brown that curled around his ears. As for his face and eyes, they were obscured by the large gas mask secured over his face. In his right hand was a pistol, with a laser sight mounted on the end of the barrel.

"You were expecting somebody else?" he asked.

John gasped.

_He sure sounded like Moriarty._

The figure turned slightly toward him, keeping the gun focused on Sherlock.

"Something wrong, Dr. Watson?"

John continued to stare, trying to reconcile the voice with the body.

"Are there drugs in this fog?" he whispered to Sherlock, wondering if he was beginning to hallucinate and mix reality with half-remembered fears.

Sherlock shook his head.

"Your friend doesn't seem to understand," the man said, turning back to Sherlock.

"Perhaps he didn't hear you when you told us you had 'voice-altering software'," replied Sherlock.

The man laughed and lifted his left hand up to his face to remove the mask. Throwing the mask to the ground, he took in a deep breath.

"Oh, that's better," he said, putting his left hand into his pocket while keeping the gun pointed at Sherlock with his right. Without the mask on, his voice was much deeper and yet somehow much less menacing.

"Where's Moriarty?" asked John.

A strange expression passed over the man's face.

"He's dead," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Your friend killed him."

"He killed himself," corrected Sherlock.

"No, _you_ killed him," the man insisted, his face twisted with rage. "And I am going to make you pay for that."

"By hurting Molly?" asked John, trying to draw his attention.

"Molly? Oh, don't worry about her, she's exactly where she's always wanted to be," he smirked. "On her back and underneath Sherlock Holmes," he said, looking down at the grave. "Though it's a little hard to get your knees up and your legs properly spread when you're lying in that coffin," he confessed.

John flashed an anxious glance in Sherlock's direction.

"Are you speaking from experience?" Sherlock asked, looking disgusted.

"Oh, don't worry, she's not my type," the man assured him.

"Was Jim your type?"

"I was_ his_ type," he said, firmly.

"Is she still alive?"

"Well," he said, pausing to shrug his shoulders. "I kept piping oxygen in to her until about thirty minutes ago. As long as she hasn't panicked and started hyperventilating, she should be all right."

"So how do I get her out of there alive?"

"It's simple, really," the man said. "All you have to do is answer three little questions—correctly of course."

"Of course."

"Question one," he said. "What's her middle name?"

John blinked, not quite believing what he was hearing. His mind ran quickly through all the documents he had looked at in the past twenty-four hours, all the little bits of information about Molly that he and Sherlock had discussed. But for the life of him, he could not remember anyone every saying or writing down her middle name. He looked over at his friend, his pale face inscrutable in the dark light.

"Time's running out," the gunman warned.

"Oh, but I've obviously already answered," Sherlock replied, calmly.

"You haven't said anything!" exclaimed John.

"Because there's nothing to say," he said.

There were a few more moments of silence, and then the man began to chuckle.

"Lucky guess?" he asked.

"Hardly."

"What?" said John, wondering again if there was a drug mixed into the fog, because nothing seemed to be making sense.

Sherlock sighed. "I found out a long time ago that it would be useful to be able to log into St. Bart's computer system, even when Molly was not available. Figuring out her user name was easy as hospitals and other organizations are notoriously predictable about assigning them. They make everyone use their first and second initial and then full last name for their log in. And where there are more than one of the common names, like John Robert Adams, they just start to designate them as jradam1 and then 2, etc. Glancing over Molly's shoulder when she logged in, it was easy to see that the second letter she typed was always 'x'. Now as I was fairly certain her bourgeois parents were hardly imaginative enough to name her something exotic like 'Xenia" I could only conclude that the 'X' was there because the login convention demanded two beginning initials, and those who were unfortunate enough not to have middle initials were automatically assigned an X as the second one."

"Did you hear that, Molly?" the gunman said, raising his voice. "Your would-be boyfriend here says you were so boring even your own parents couldn't be bothered to spend time thinking up a proper name for you!"

"No wonder you're a bleedin' doormat for any man who smiles at you!" he added, laughing loudly.

"Why are you doing that?" asked Sherlock, wrinkling his forehead.

"Oh, didn't I mention the fact that there's a microphone placed so she can hear us?"

Sherlock and John exchanged worried glances.

"Well, since you guessed her log-in, I'm sure you know her password as well?" he asked.

"Tobias, of course," answered Sherlock, watching him carefully.

John looked over at him, a bit puzzled.

"It needed to be at least six digits long, so 'Toby' wasn't long enough," explained Sherlock. Turning back to the man, he asked: "Was that the second question?"

"No, but shows you how much she loves that cat, doesn't it?"

He took one step closer to him.

"Okay, Mr. Know-it-all. Tell Molly what happened to her dear little Toby."

John looked over and saw Sherlock's right cheek twitch slightly.

"Loud and clear now, so she can hear every word," he warned.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and then took in a deep breath.

"He's dead, Molly."

"Louder!"

"Toby is dead, Molly!" he yelled.

John looked away, unable to bear the sheer pain in his expression as he said the words.

"I'm sorry," he added.

"And why are you sorry?" he prompted.

"I killed him," replied Sherlock, enunciating the words carefully as his eyes blazed with rage.

"Well, that is such a shame, isn't it Molly? He has no respect for your parents or your pet. But is that really a surprise given all the times he used you and then tossed you aside over the years?"

"He hasn't done that!" John protested, but he fell silent again as Sherlock shook his head vigorously.

"Oh, don't worry, Molly, he still has one chance to redeem himself and get you out of there," the man said, as he took a couple of steps backward. "All he has to do is answer the next question as honestly as he can."

"What is it?" asked Sherlock, regarding him with pure loathing.

"Remember, honesty counts," he reminded him.

"All right."

"So, tell me, Mr. Holmes, do you care for Miss Hooper?"

"Of course I do."

"I wasn't finished yet!" he yelled.

John looked over to see that the red light was now aimed directly at Sherlock's chest.

"Do you care enough for Miss Hooper to sacrifice your life for hers?"

John felt his own heart start racing as an icy chill ran through his body.

"Yes," said Sherlock, immediately, taking a step toward the man and holding his arms out to the side as if to provide a broader target for him.

"Really?" the gunman said, shaking his head. "The great Sherlock Holmes would rather die himself than let dopey little insignificant Molly Hooper be killed?"

"Absolutely," Sherlock replied.

"Well, if I really want to make you suffer, that leaves me with only one option, doesn't it?" the man said, very softly.

A moment later the red light dipped down onto the tangle of wires upon the grave.

"No!" yelled Sherlock.

John had lunged into action already, trying to place his own body in between the gun and whatever target the evil man finally decided upon. But Sherlock reached out to grab his arm and pull him back as he tried to place himself into the line of fire. But even as they moved, there was a loud blast and the earth beneath them shook as a large explosion went off underground. Sherlock barely managed to stay on his feet. But the soil was still reverberating as John's legs came down, knocking him completely off his feet and slamming his head into the sharp edge of the headstone.

Sherlock's ghostly white face appeared above him a moment later, seeming to spin around in a weird circle. But John only had time enough to murmur: "Sorry" before everything went dark.

"As if that will do any good," the man said, as Sherlock knelt over John's body.

Placing him on his back, he reached into his jacket to extract a handkerchief, quickly tying it around John's forehead to staunch the bleeding from the cut on his head.

"How does it feel to fail?" the man asked, smiling in triumph.

"Oh, I didn't fail," replied Sherlock, getting to his feet.

He turned and smiled, revealing that he now had John's gun in his hand.

"Once again-just as I did up on the rooftop of St. Bart's-I managed to stay alive and let someone else die instead," he smirked.

"Don't come near me, or I'll shoot!" the man warned.

"With a laser pointer?" Sherlock taunted.

"I just used it to set off that explosion!" the man protested.

"No, you didn't," said Sherlock, shaking his head. "You used that detonator in your left pocket."

The man gaped at him in shock.

"Or were you just happy to see me?" he mocked.

"But then, firearms aren't really your style are they? You're not an assassin; you're just a maintenance man."

"You're just guessing-"

"Oh, I never guess," he said, "I deduce. And you have just miscalculated. Just like Jim did."

"Don't you dare say his name!"

"Then I'll say yours," he said softly. "Dan McShane, isn't it?"

"No," he said, starting to back away. "You couldn't possibly have just figured that out."

"Oh, I was able to figure that out shortly after visiting Molly's flat. By the way, it was so kind of you to fix that leaky faucet. Such a shame you couldn't have come by while I was living there, that bloody thing used to keep me up at night."

The man stopped backing up and stood still, his face filled with confusion.

"Well then, why didn't you fix it yourself, seeing you're such a genius?" he asked.

"The same reason James Moriarty wouldn't have fixed it. I did misspeak at his trial when I said 'I'm sure he'd make a pretty decent job of your boiler', didn't I? The truth was that he wouldn't have dirtied his hands with something so mundane. He would have arranged for you, or someone like you to actually do the physical labor."

"He would have chosen me," McShane said, proudly.

"Why, because you're _'special_'?"

"Yes."

"No, no, no," murmured Sherlock, shaking his head sadly. "You were just _useful_." Shrugging his shoulders, he added: "Just like Molly was to me. Useful, but not particularly special. So, if the whole point of this was to hurt me, I'm afraid you are the one who failed."

"No, that's not true!" he screamed. "She meant a lot to you! Look at the way you've been running around in circles, trying desperately-"

"To save her life? No, merely to try and solve the puzzles. After all, it was so nice to finally have something to do. But in the end, your little games were really much too simple, especially that last one. Did you think I really didn't know that if I asked you to kill me instead of her you'd do just the opposite to spite me? You've rather sullied Jim's name by associating him with this tawdry imitation."

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and lowered the gun. "l'll find someone else to charm into doing what I need him or her to do for me at St. Bart's, just like Jim would have easily replaced someone as insignificant as you," he sneered, turning his back and starting to walk away.

For a moment McShane just stood there, looking utterly defeated. But in the next second he surprised the detective by charging after him.

"You bastard!" he yelled, raising his 'gun' in the air.

Sherlock pivoted back to face him, raising his own pistol as he turned. But McShane slammed his imitation weapon down hard upon his wrist, causing him to drop the gun. In another moment the man had dropped his gun as well and reached over to grab the detective by the lapels of his coat. He hoisted him up into the air a few inches and then threw him to the ground, immediately dropping down on top of him.

"No more fancy guns or games," he said, his face twisted into a deranged smile as his hands circled Sherlock's throat. "I'll just kill you with my bare hands."

Bringing his face so close that their noses were touching, he added, "For Jim."

Sherlock had managed to work his hands up between them and was trying to wrench the man's hands from his throat. But McShane's hands, rough and calloused from years of physical labor, were much too strong for him.

He smiled in triumph as he saw Sherlock's face beginning to redden, the clawing at his hands becoming more and more frantic as his body became more and more desperate for air.

Then he suddenly loosened his hold and reared up as he became aware of the crackling of footsteps behind him. He looked up just in time to see the large wooden handle of an umbrella come crashing down towards his head.

Rolling Dan's unconscious form from his body, Sherlock looked up as Mycroft stared balefully at his umbrella, the shaft now broken into two pieces held together by the slightest of threads.

"That took you long enough," grumbled Sherlock, as he got to his feet.

"You know how I abhor physical exertion," protested his brother. "Besides, I kept thinking _he _would intercede," he added, pointing toward the figure approaching them through the mist.

It appeared to be the drunk who had been asleep on the bench, and both of the Holmes brothers held their nose as the man's rank smell preceded him. But there was a gun in his right hand and as he neared them, the mist cleared away to reveal the familiar features of Detective Inspector Lestrade.

"Cancel the backup, we have an 'all clear'," he murmured into the walkie-talkie he carried in his left.

Clicking it off, he turned to Mycroft.

"Yeah, but with this smelly thing on me I figured it was easier for you to sneak up on them," he said, putting his pistol back into his holster. Removing the coat, he tossed it behind him. "Well, that's a little better," he said, sniffing the air.

"Only slightly," replied Sherlock.

"Well, you said you wanted to get the first crack at him," Lestrade said, looking at Mycroft.

"I didn't mean it literally," he demurred. Tossing the broken umbrella aside, he added: "You _do_ intend to reimburse me for that I hope?"

"No, that expense will be on your little brother, not my department," replied Lestrade.

"Speaking of your department," said Sherlock, turning to look as a police car came barreling down the narrow cemetery lane, screeching to a halt right beside them.

It was a police car similar to the one that had taken Mrs. Hudson away. But there was a young policeman at its wheel and when the door opened, it was Molly Hooper who emerged out of the back seat.

Her feet were bare, her long brown hair was tangled and matted, and she was clad in a pair of wrinkled and slightly soiled surgical scrubs. But she had a radiant smile on her face as she closed the door and leaned back against the car.

"I'm such a mess," she said, apologetically, shrugging her shoulders and awkwardly crossing her arms over her chest, "but I told them I couldn't wait any longer."

"Nonsense," he said, striding toward her. "You look magnificent ."

He took a moment to brush back a straggling lock of hair from her face before continuing.

"But you could do with just a touch of lipstick," he said, smiling as he pulled the lipstick case out of his pocket and handed it to her.

She giggled slightly as she reached out to take it.

"That's right, my mouth looks too small without it," she said, looking up at him and smiling.

A moment later, the smile wavered as her eyes began to fill with tears.

"Getting myself prettied up for _him,_" she said, turning back to look at where McShane was still lying on the ground.

Her hand suddenly clenched the lipstick in a tighter grip.

"If I had just been able to reach that damn panic button," she said, shaking her head and unable to prevent a tear from rolling down her cheek.

"Shh, shh, hush now," he murmured.

A moment later he had swept her into his arms, his hands making smooth, soothing circles on her back as she leaned gratefully against him, her arms wrapped around him as well.

"My brave, strong Molly," he said, hugging her tightly.

Lestrade and Mycroft both turned away, taking out their cell phones to make suddenly urgent calls.

"I wasn't brave at all," she protested, standing on her tip toes so that she could whisper into his ear. "I just knew that you would save me."

"Well, they've just about finished clearing up Baker Street," said Lestrade, his voice just a little louder than absolutely necessary as he snapped off his phone.

"And my men will be here shortly to help take him in," said Mycroft, looking down at McShane disdainfully.

"Where's John?" asked Molly, suddenly.

"Oh, he's, uh, over there," said Sherlock, pointing at where John was still lying by the headstone.

"Oh, no!" cried Molly, hurrying over to him. "What happened?"

"Oh, I made sure he was just knocked out," Sherlock assured her.

Molly knelt down beside John and began to gently pat his cheeks as she called his name.

"Should I call an ambulance?" Lestrade asked, coming to stand beside him.

"No, that won't be necessary. I'm sure once he wakes up and sees that Molly is safe and sound, he'll be fine."

Lestrade nodded and then cleared his throat as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"How about one for _you _for when John figures out that we had already gotten her out of there by the time you arrived? And that you knew it?" he asked, unable to keep a mischievous smile from tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Sherlock considered this for a moment and then turned to walk toward his brother.

"Mycroft, might I borrow your car?"

**Note: One more chapter to go!**


	8. Chapter 8: Of Mouse and Men

**Chapter 8**

**Of Mouse and Men**

"Are you serious?"

Molly smiled apologetically as John closed his eyes and he rubbed a weary hand across his forehead. He was feeling a bit out of it anyway, which was highly understandable given the fact that:

A) He had only had a few hours of sleep in the last thirty-six hours

B) He had recently cracked his head open on his best friend's tombstone while making an apparently unsuccessful attempt to save a second friend's life

C) He had awoken to find the person he thought had just been blown to bits patting his cheek and calling his name

D) Moriarty wasn't Moriarty, and Lestrade and Mycroft were arguing over who got to question him first regarding what was left of the consulting criminal's syndicate. And, finally:

E) Sherlock had once again headed back home without him

But now, to find out that-

"You were out of the grave and hiding in the Holmes mortuary ever since this afternoon?"

Molly nodded.

"Where the bloody hell is that, and how did you get there?"

"Oh, it's in one of the other quadrants of the cemetery," she said. "It's been there for quite awhile, and the place is pretty full, actually." Laughing softly, she added, "Mycroft said that he and Sherlock had made a pact a long time ago that there was no way they were going to abide lying next to each other for all eternity in such close quarters and that the first to go would have to be buried elsewhere. And he says that since Sherlock was technically declared dead and that he-Mycroft-had already paid for the plot and headstone for him, Sherlock will just have to keep to their bargain."

"But how-"

"Well, I knew already that there are lots of catacombs at Kensal Green, in fact I've been on a tour of them. One is full, one is still used for burials, and one was closed after it suffered damage in a World War II bombing. Well, at least that's what they tell the public."

Glancing up at their driver, she lowered her face and bent down to whisper. "Actually, it wasn't damaged at all. According to Mycroft, that was just a story put round to cover up the fact that they had really stopped putting bodies there because they were packing it with supplies. Turns out they were putting in a whole series of tunnels and bomb shelters meant to keep the royal family and essential members of the government safe in the worst-case scenario of Hitler launching a successful invasion. Luckily enough, one of those tunnels happened to run very near the gravesite. So once he figured out that's where I was, it didn't take Mycroft too long to have them extend it out so that they could get me out through the bottom and not risk setting the bomb off from the top."

"Did they have to build one over to the Holmes mortuary as well?"

"Oh, that tunnel's been there for awhile," said Molly, smiling again. "Apparently, it still is a plan to keep those 'essential' government people in the loop in case of a catastrophe."

"I see. And when exactly was this?"

"Oh, about five o'clock this afternoon," she said.

She closed her eyes and shivered involuntarily for a moment.

"That was quite long enough for me, even with being knocked out for the first few hours. Although I have to admit, as creepy as it was to wake up and realize where I was, it was even weirder when I started hearing noises coming near me from underground."

"Yeah, I can imagine," John said.

But he still looked upset.

"Oh, come on, John. Mycroft said it was essential Dan not realize that they were on to him. The best way to make him feel confident that no one knew where I was hidden was for you and Sherlock to be seen running all over town every place but the cemetery."

"That's certainly where I was this afternoon," he answered.

But even as he felt a residual wave of resentment, he thought back upon the conversation he and Sherlock had had in the street. He had to admit that his friend had told him quite truthfully that he was purposefully keeping him in the dark to protect Molly. If he had realized that they were sneaking her out through the bottom of the grave, her captor would have set off the bomb immediately.

"Here we are," said the policeman, breaking into his thoughts.

"Oh," said John, looking a little surprised as he realized they were back at Baker Street. "I thought we were dropping you off first."

"My orders were to bring both of you back here," said the man, shrugging his shoulders. "He didn't say anything about dropping the young lady off anywhere else."

Molly and John smiled at each other ruefully.

"Might as well go in," she said cheerfully, as she opened up the door. "I expect he has his reasons."

"No doubt," said John, getting out his own side.

"Though I really can't be too long, I need to be getting home to Toby. I left him plenty of food, but I'm sure he's gone through it all by now," she said.

There was a sudden cold, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he slammed the door and watched her rush over to the building.

_Toby. Oh, my god. No one's told her about Toby yet. No wonder he didn't want her left off at her flat, we need to prepare her first._

"Wait a minute!" he called, running after her.

"The door was open!" she called back, over her shoulder.

"Listen, Molly," he said, following close behind her, "I, uh, we, uh, hold on just a minute!"

"Oh!" she said, clasping her hands together in excitement and smiling as they both heard a violin begin to play a familiar tune.

Before he could stop her, she had raced up the stairs. He himself stayed behind, looking around the floor in amazement. Lestrade had told him that his men had moved into the place as soon as he and Sherlock had left so that they could get the corpse out of the basement apartment, but he hadn't realized that they had taken the time to replace the door to 221C as well. Mrs. Hudson would never be able to tell what had gone on in her absence, he noted with relief.

Heading up the stairs, he managed to arrive just as Sherlock finished playing the final bars of the tune.

"So was that _'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow'_ for you to celebrate your latest accomplishment, or 'For _She's_ a Jolly Good Fellow' in honor of Molly's return?" asked John, dryly, as Sherlock walked out of the living room to meet them, violin and bow still in his hands.

"Both," he replied. "How's the head, John, would you like some ice?"

"Love some," he said, turning to head towards the kitchen.

"Make yourself at home, Molly," said Sherlock, pointing towards the living room. "Would you mind taking these with you?" he asked, handing her the instrument and its bow before heading into the kitchen.

Although his head was indeed beginning to throb, John was more bent on having a few words in private without Molly overhearing.

"We need to talk," he hissed, as Sherlock bustled around grabbing a reasonably clean kitchen towel and reaching into the freezer to get some ice cubes.

"Of course, John, of course, everything will be explained in good time," he replied, handing him the packet.

"But what are we going to tell her?" he asked, suppressing a slight moan as he held the cold compress to his head.

"About what?" said Sherlock, looking perplexed.

"About-"

"Toby!" cried Molly's voice from the other room.

John's eyes widened in horror.

"Oh, god, tell me you didn't bring him here!"

"Of course he's here," he replied. "Molly, would you like a glass of wine?" he called.

"Yes, please!"

That sounded way too happy, thought John. He looked up at Sherlock, his eyes narrowing suspiciously, but got only an angelic smile in response as he held out the glass of wine. Taking it and turning around, John slowly made his way out of the kitchen. Peering around the doorway, he looked over and found his mouth dropping open as he realized Molly was sitting on the couch, happily petting a loudly purring cat.

Closing his mouth with an audible snap, he walked over to hand the drink to Molly and then hurried back to Sherlock.

"A whiskey for you, John," he said, handing him a drink.

John took a moment to drink it down in a single gulp before speaking.

"Is that really him?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, John," he chided, "if Irene Adler could tell her phone from an identical fake, you don't think I'd even try pulling the same stunt with Molly and her cat, do you?"

"But-"

"Woo-hoo!" called a familiar voice, as they heard footsteps on the stairs.

"Mrs. Hudson, you've returned," said Sherlock, beaming.

"Yes, and I've got all the things you asked for," she said.

She was holding one of the suitcases John had seen her carrying out earlier, and on her good hip she was balancing a large shopping bag.

"Here you are dear, these are for you," she said, as Molly came out onto the landing to greet her.

"What's this, then?" said Molly, smiling as she peered into the bag. "Oh, Toby, look! Mrs. Hudson has brought you your food and treats."

Toby had joined them as well, taking turns rubbing against everyone's legs as he greeted them in turn. Although Sherlock frowned down at the hair left behind on his dark trousers, John noted that he had not backed away from the cat's demonstration of affection. His work done, the cat sauntered back into the living room.

"What's in the suitcase?" Molly asked.

"Oh," said Mrs. Hudson, handing it over, "Sherlock asked me to pick up a few things for you, said he thought you'd probably like to change your clothes."

"Oh, wouldn't I!" said Molly, with a smile.

"I thought that was packed with _your_ clothes?" John said, looking over at Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, that's why I had two suitcases," Mrs. Hudson answered, cheerfully. "Sherlock had me throw a few of my things into one and said I'd probably be filling the other one up when I got to where I needed to go."

"Sally ended up driving you over to Molly's flat?"

"Where else would she go?" asked Sherlock.

"Here's your key back," said Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh," said Molly, putting out her hand.

But Mrs. Hudson had already turned toward Sherlock, intending to hand the keys to _him_. There was an awkward pause as she stood, keys in hand, looking back and forth between the two of them.

"Yes," said Sherlock, breaking the suddenly uncomfortable silence by taking the keys from Mrs. Hudson and turning back toward Molly. "I suppose I did forget to give these back to you when I left."

"I thought you _had_ given them back," she replied.

But although she kept her hand stretched out and his remained right over her palm, the keys seemed to be welded to the end of his fingertips.

John coughed.

"Of course," he said, shrugging his shoulders, "it wouldn't really hurt, you know-"

"Yes, dear, I always think it's rather nice for a friend to keep a spare set for you. Just in case," said Mrs. Hudson. "It did come in very handy this time!"

The quartet all nodded as instant agreement and Sherlock swiftly pocketed the keys.

"Well," said Molly, hugging the suitcase to her. "I guess I'd better go change. The bedroom is, uh-"

"Right through here," said Mrs. Hudson, showing her the way.

"I, uh, don't suppose-"

"Oh, please help yourself to the shower as well," said Sherlock.

"Oh," said Molly, beginning to blush.

"Don't worry, dear," trilled Mrs. Hudson, "I put fresh towels out the other day and I packed a few of your toiletries in there too and your terry robe, as well as a pretty little nightie."

"A nightie!" exclaimed Molly, stopping in her tracks.

"Well, Sherlock said-"

"Of course you're staying overnight, Molly," said Sherlock. "We are going to have a celebration tonight that is going to go on for a long time and you know that old biddy, Mrs. Brisby, would be calling the police on us if we tried to have it at your flat."

"A party for me?" asked Molly, delightedly.

"Oh, I'd better go start making some snacks. Oh, dear, I wonder what I have," clucked Mrs. Hudson, shaking her head.

"Not to worry, Mrs. Hudson, John went out and bought plenty of cheese, crackers, biscuits and shrimp today."

"As a matter of fact, I did," he said. "Though at the time I had no idea it was for a party."

"Why did you think I was so particular in sending you out for the best?" replied Sherlock.

"Oh, good, I'll just go make some sandwiches then!" she exclaimed. "Here, you take this," she said, handing John the paper bag before heading down the stairs.

John turned back into the kitchen and set the bag on the counter before beginning to get the snacks out of the refrigerator and cupboard.

"Another drink for you, John?" asked Sherlock, coming back into the room.

He poured out another drink while John began to unwrap the cheese. John waited a moment, getting out the cheese board and cocking his head to make sure he heard the water running in the shower before whirring around to confront him.

"How exactly did you do that?" he asked, pointing the cheese knife in the direction of the living room.

"I told you that I had to consider how he would play the game this time. Since it was not Moriarty, I had the feeling that whoever was behind this was going to 'stack' the deck by making sure I chose a poison pill this time."

"Because both of the pills were poisoned?"

"Exactly. That left me no option but to cheat as well."

Disappearing into the living room for a moment, he reappeared with his familiar overcoat slung over his arm. Hanging it over one of the kitchen chairs, he reached into the right pocket and drew something out.

"Look familiar?" he said, holding out his hand.

It was a clear capsule filled with white powder.

"That's the pill you took out of the bottle?" asked John, after a moment.

Sherlock nodded and put the pill back.

"But the pill you gave Toby was another pill."

"Yes, one that I had carried _into_ the room in my pocket."

John shook his head and laughed.

"Which you managed to switch in the confusion that followed after I fired my gun. Although, of course, that's exactly what you intended me to do when you pretended you were going to try the pill yourself."

"Of course. That's why I made sure you had your pistol and that it was loaded."

John thought for few more moments.

"Well, if it wasn't lethal, it wasn't exactly harmless?"

Sherlock shrugged. "A mixture of three drugs, an emetic, a tranquilizer and epileptogenic. Not pleasant, I grant you, but administered in a careful dose. As I wrapped my scarf around him, I made sure he was in a position where he would not choke on his own vomit, and his respiration was shallow enough that McShane would not be able to tell from the video that he was unconscious rather than dead. And Anderson was there within a few minutes to carry him out and then discreetly begin giving him an antidote."

"He just happened to know what to give him?"

Sherlock looked incredulous. "Well, of course he did because he's the one who came up with the mixture to give to him in the first place."

"Oh, of course," said John, throwing up his hands.

"Well, what did you think I was doing this afternoon while you were running around doing the shopping? Just sitting here playing chess in my head?"

John shrugged. "It wouldn't have surprised me."

"I was extremely busy, I assure you," he said. "It was while we were at Molly's that I finally realized that he must be hiding her by burying her in my grave.

"How exactly did you work that out?" asked John.

Sherlock smiled ruefully. "In the 'lost dog' notice, he had written of pets, family and loved ones of whom all we have left are memories. That seemed to be a clear reference to death and pets had to mean Toby, of course, meaning his life was definitely at stake. The sudden disappearance of the afghan made me think it was her grandmother referenced as the 'family', although I couldn't quite see how that fit in. What on earth could he do to hurt her? She was long dead and since she had been cremated and her ashes scattered, he couldn't even dig up her body. But that fortuitous thought immediately led me to realize the fact that there was another body that he _could_ disinter, and that it would fit into the puzzle as well."

_Because you, of course, were the 'loved one'_, thought John.

"There was a perfect if rather twisted logic to his motives. I was going to be paid back for faking my death by having another person take the place in my grave, this time being someone who actually mattered to me. Given the way he had set up the initial bombing at the hospital, I knew we couldn't simply go over and try to start digging her out of the cemetery. I assumed, rightly that he had booby-trapped the site in some way. The best thing for me to do would be to appear to be still searching for clues all over the city. So, I had to go visit the pool where Carl Powers drowned again, find a way back up to the rooftop at St. Bart's, and also stop in at the Hickman Gallery, the Planetarium and Janus Cars. All the while handing out copious money to members of the homeless network while asking for information."

"Because?"

"Because I was sure that he knew I had figured out the 'tabby meaning cabby' clue right away, and therefore he would think it logical that I was trying to get ahead of him by seeing if there were other scenarios he wished to repeat."

"That's why you needed to take out all that money from the bank? Just to have something to hand out to the homeless network even though you didn't need anything from them?"

Sherlock laughed.

"Oh, they were able to tell me that there had been some suspicious activity in the cemetery in the early hours of the morning. But when I told you that I was going to have to pay a high price to get Molly home I was referencing the fact I had come to the conclusion that I had no choice but to ask for Mycroft's help in the matter. In his position and with his knowledge of the tunnels, I knew he could arrange a quick and invisible rescue from below, but I needed to make sure he started immediately. When I am in need of my dear brother's attention, there is no better or faster way of getting it than to try and withdraw a lot of money from my trust fund."

"Then, on top of everything else, I also had to grovel before Anderson to ask his assistance with formulating the drug to use on Toby and the quick administration of an antidote. He, of course, was royally brassed-off at me to begin with for foisting that autopsy assist with Matthews on him."

"I'm amazed he cooperated with you at all."

"He made it abundantly clear it was for Molly, not for me. Anyway, it's all clear now, isn't it?"

"As clear as mud."

"What else do you need to know?"

"When did you know Molly was safe? And how did Lestrade know to send his men to clean up Baker Street when we left for the cemetery?"

Sherlock smiled.

"Between my conversations with Mycroft and Anderson, I had also left them instructions to convey to Lestrade. I'll admit I played up my paranoia about being watched and bugged just a bit, given it was only McShane and not Moriarty as the mastermind behind it all. But the fact of the matter is he did use a hidden camera to watch my actions at the College, which is why I had to be very fast when I made the switch in pills. I also thought there was a substantial possibility that our flat was under surveillance, so I did not want to hold phone conversations with New Scotland Yard while I was in it. That's why I arranged for Lestrade to send in Sally to pick up Mrs. Hudson if and only when Molly was known to be safely out of danger and was hidden in the mortuary. Since they were both certain McShane could be helpful in helping them track down what remains of Moriarty's network of criminals, both Lestrade and Mycroft agreed that I should still allow him to play out the game by continuing to have him send me the clues and have me solve them. That way they could be sure to catch him red-handed in the cemetery, as it were."

He leaned forward as his grin broadened.

"Now think, John, who might have been the person I contacted on Baker Street who would pass on to Lestrade that we were on our way to Kensal Green?"

"Oh," groaned John, leaning back and slapping his head. "The woman on the bench that you sold the…well, I guess it wasn't really cocaine. What did you actually give her?"

"A mixture of sugar, cornstarch and flour I had just mixed up in the kitchen prior to your awakening from your nap."

"And here I'd thought I'd finally got you to reveal your 'hiding place'."

"Hardly. Although the undercover policewoman was a bit surprised as well. Originally, she was just supposed to observe us leaving, but it had occurred to me while you slept that I would need to obtain some money if we were to take a taxi to the cemetery. Once I assured her she'd be reimbursed by Lestrade, she was willing to hand over the fifty quid."

_Meow_

They both turned to look at Toby.

"Yes, I know, you're hungry," said Sherlock.

Rising from his chair he took a moment to take his food from out of the bag, open up the can and scoop some out into a dish. He set a bowl of water down beside it as well and John could not help but note that he reached out to scratch the cat behind the ears for a moment as it settled down to eat.

"Well, that pill was a bit unpleasant," he muttered, as his eyes met John's. "Doesn't hurt to stay on his good side."

Pouring a drink for himself, he sat down in the chair.

"So?"

"So, you knew from the beginning?"

"Well, not from the very beginning," he demurred. "I was led about by the nose at the beginning, believing Molly to be dead and then gobsmacked at finding what appeared to be a pair of Moriarty's pants on the body. But the more I thought of it, the more I knew that if it were really Moriarty, he would never have skulked about in the background. This was not the work of someone who was my 'fan', but someone who was a fan of Moriarty, and was copying what he had done before. Moriarty was nothing if not original, and yet here we were, being confronted with pips and clues again. There was just too much repetition to what he was doing. Though if Molly hadn't dropped her lipstick where she did, I admit I might have gone off on the wrong track."

John merely raised his eyebrows, beginning to open up the crackers and cutting the cheese into slices as he waited for him to continue.

"I had already concluded it was an inside job, someone who was familiar with St. Bart's, certainly familiar with what time the security people made their rounds and where they went, because he knew he had the time to take off Molly's clothes and put them on the corpse before smuggling her out of the hospital."

"How did he do that, by the way?"

"By hiding her in one of the large bins of garbage and wheeling her out-which he was able to do because he knew when all the janitorial staff took their break as well. But I kept coming back to where her lipstick was, obviously having fallen out of her pocket when she tried, unsuccessfully, to set off the alarm button. Now, the security people know when an alarm goes off which room to go to, but it was decidedly much more likely that a maintenance man, someone who checked the wiring regularly, would be much more familiar with where the button actually was. Which got me to thinking of how convenient it was that this time the bomb's accelerant was ether rather than gas. A large can of ether that had been placed underneath a leaking pipe. Because he couldn't find another place to put it? No, because he himself had made sure the pipe was leaking when he placed the already-rusting can underneath it."

"But wait a minute," said John, frowning as he began to place some shrimp on top of the crackers as well, "If he was a maintenance man, how was he able to get away with not helping with the clean up at the hospital after the bombing, wouldn't he have been missed?"

Sherlock smiled. "He just happened to have called in Sunday morning to tell his supervisor he wouldn't be able to make it in to work that night, as he had sprained his wrist."

"How do you know that?"

"I told you that I made an appearance at St. Bart's today. And while I was there, I also managed to break into the hospital computer system to check out the personnel and timekeeping databases."

"Of course," said John, putting a plate of the snacks down between them as he seated himself at the table.

"Once I found out that a Dan McShane had been hired on shortly after I had reappeared, he seemed the most likely candidate, particularly as it seemed he had ended up often switching his shifts with other maintenance men in order to work the same shift as Molly."

"So, he was worming his way into her affections just like Moriarty had done."

"He was even better at it, in a way. He managed to get into her apartment by offering to fix her leaky sink."

"What leaky sink?"

"When we visited Molly's flat, I immediately realized that her perennially-leaking sink had finally been fixed, confirming my 'maintenance man' theory."

"I was supposed to figure out that the sink wasn't leaking and that it was a clue when I'd never been there before?" he protested.

"Despite Molly's devotion to cleanliness, there were unmistakable rust marks denoting that a leaking fixture had been a long-term problem. Anyway, McShane came round, fixed the problem and no doubt refused to accept money for doing so. So therefore Molly would have to insist she repay him by making him a nice dinner. While she was busy in the kitchen, he managed to sneak into her bedroom and steal her spare pair of keys from her purse."

"If she keeps her spare keys in her purse and you had given them back to her, how did you have the keys again?"

"Well, of course, I made another set of spare keys while I lived there before I gave her the other set back."

"Why did_ he_ need a set of keys?"

Sherlock sighed. "That's how he made sure he could get into her apartment later to kidnap Toby."

"Took a chance on Mrs. Brisby seeing him and calling the police," said John.

"Why on earth would she do that? Here was that nice young man who had already helped Molly, coming back in with his toolbox to fix something else."

"What was he going to fix?"

"Nothing. His toolbox was empty except for the catnip mouse and her purse, which he returned to her drawer after clearing her phone so there would be no record of his home and hospital numbers from their frequent phone calls to one another. He especially didn't want them to know that she had called his cell very shortly before the explosion."

"Why?"

"Because by that time she was beginning to smell the ether and as she thought he was on the graveyard shift that night, she assumed he was the logical person to call. But instead of calling the hospital extension, she had fallen into the habit of contacting him directly on his cell rather than the department extension when she knew he was working."

"Anyway, it didn't take him long once he was back in her flat to leave the catnip mouse containing the clue, and stuff Toby and the afghan into the toolbox and head out again. Really John, you could see the indentation on the bedroom carpet where a heavy toolbox had been."

"Well,_ you_ could. So I take it he didn't have to wrap Toby up in the afghan but took it anyway?"

Sherlock nodded. "I'm sure he had seen it in her flat and also looked through Molly's set of pictures that she carries in her purse. There's one of her as a teenager, sitting next to her grandmother's wheelchair as the old woman crocheted that afghan. Clothing my 'corpse' with a grey wig and her grandmother's afghan did a lot to at least evoke the picture that I had seen."

"Why did he return the keys?"

Sherlock laughed. "To make it more mystifying as to how anyone could have gotten into the flat without breaking into it. As I noted, I knew it was strange that the door was locked but not deadbolted when we arrived. Molly never left the flat without making sure they were both in place. He was of course able to unlock both with his keys, but when he left without them, he was at a disadvantage."

"He could just twist the lock on the door, but he could not fasten the deadbolt."

"Precisely. Which also led me to suspect that he had probably already acquired a set of keys to Baker Street and was planning something here as well."

"How?"

"Why was there a mouse in your room, John? Particularly since we later realized it was already dead when it appeared there? Who could have put it there?"

John sighed. "Dan McShane, I'm guessing, but I don't have the faintest idea how or why."

"I admit it is tempting to rather turn off your brain when Mrs. Hudson is droning on, but if you bothered to pay attention to some of her latest gossip, she was all atwitter about Mrs. Turner from next door gaining a new tenant. A young man who works at St. Bart's. Though she is about to find out that he has disappeared."

"McShane was living right next door?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, and being a model tenant. One who not only paid his rent promptly and in full, but who also offered to do quite a bit of 'fixing up' about the place."

John blinked, as he vaguely remembered Mrs. Hudson making some comment about how nice Mrs. Turner's new renter was, how he didn't mess up the kitchen with scientific equipment and leave body parts in the refrigerator like _some_ people did.

"And while he was rewiring the walls and replacing pipes-" he began.

"He managed to make a small hole through the wall connecting our two buildings and toss in a little mouse before covering it up again," replied Sherlock. "Having listened patiently to Mrs. Turner talk of how particular Mrs. Hudson is about certain things, he had no doubt it would lead her to immediately decide the whole place had to be combed for mice. So, we would be forced out of the flat for part of the day and a crew of men in maintenance jumpsuits would be in it.

"And who on the street would notice one more man in a maintenance jumpsuit coming into the house?" said John, imagining the scene in his head.

As he spoke, he watched Toby, finishing up his dinner and pausing to lick his mouth and paws before meandering back out toward the living room.

"Yes, though I'm sure he made sure they were still busy doing your bedroom before sneaking into Mrs. Hudson's rooms to find the spare set of keys she keeps in her kitchen cabinet.

"How do you always know where everyone keeps their spare keys?" he asked. "Wait a minute," he said, wrinkling his forehead, "did he steal mine for awhile as well, is that why-"

"No, John, I stole those."

"What?"

"Well, since I had pointed out to you the problem with the main door being locked but not the bolt, I was sure you would notice it when we came back to Baker Street after returning from Roland-Kerr Further Education College. I rather suspected he wanted us to go there not to simply humiliate me by failing to 'solve' the problem this time, but in order to set up something in our own building as well. It was another reason I came up with the scheme of using the departure of Mrs. Hudson to let me know Molly was all right. It would also ensure that our landlady was not in danger of running into him if, as I suspected, he would be returning to our building to place another clue while we were at the College. Since I knew he would be dividing his own attention between the cemetery and the college, Molly's flat seemed like a very safe place for her to go."

"Though I admit he was a bit more clever than I expected about what he did here at Baker Street. I had wondered what he had done with my 'corpse' since Molly was now occupying that space, but I do think he came up with a rather ingenious way to work it into the plot."

"I'm sure he'll be flattered you said so."

"At any rate, like Molly's flat, the deadbolt was not set when we came back, a fact that I was anxious to know, but wanted to keep you from remarking upon. I had stolen your keys out of your pocket when you slept, John, and just managed to work them down into the sofa cushions before you ran upstairs."

They both turned as they heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

"Here we go, boys," said Mrs. Hudson, carrying a tray of sandwiches up the stairs, "and look who I found knocking at the door."

Lestrade was following behind her.

"You know, Sherlock, I really wish you would fix that doorbell," she said, as she came into the kitchen to set the tray down on the table.

"Maybe we should ask Mrs. Turner if that nice tenant of hers could do it," he suggested, sharing a grin with John.

"Oh, I thought I heard voices," said Molly.

She was out of the shower, her wet hair pulled back into a ponytail and wearing a clean blouse and pair of jeans that were much tighter than the work clothes John was used to seeing her in.

"Are you staying for the party?" she asked, looking at Lestrade.

"I'd love to," he said, immediately.

"Though I suppose I'm a little too casual," she said, gesturing down at her clothes.

"No, dear, you look lovely," said Mrs. Hudson, not even looking at her as she wrinkled her forehead, bustling about the kitchen as she searched for some clean plates and utensils.

"You look wonderful to me," said Lestrade, beaming down at her. "I'm so glad you're all right."

"Well, thanks to all of you," said Molly, a very pretty blush coloring her freshly-scrubbed face. "Um, I already gave Sherlock and John a big hug to thank them, could I give you one as well?" she asked, shyly.

"I thought you'd never ask," said Lestrade, holding out his arms.

Mrs. Hudson was still too busy rushing around the kitchen to notice, but John sensed rather than saw Sherlock's body stiffen slightly as this 'friendly' hug went on just a second too long.

"What's that in your hand?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade and Molly hastily broke apart as he stepped forward.

"Oh, your scarf," Lestrade said, handing it over. "Anderson said he was through with it. Still needs to be cleaned, though," he noted.

"Yes," he said, taking it and rolling it into a ball before tossing it onto the counter.

"Do you need help, Mrs. Hudson?" Molly asked, turning her attention to her.

"No, no, dear, you go sit down and relax, I'll take care of things."

"Oh, by the way," Sherlock said, waiting until Molly had left before turning back to where his coat was still hanging over the kitchen chair. "I suppose Anderson will be wanting this?" he asked, retrieving the pill out of the pocket and handing it to Lestrade.

"Yes, he will, I'll give it to him first thing tomorrow morning," he replied, pocketing it.

"Just want to say 'thank you' for all your excellent help in this case," Sherlock said, holding out his hand.

Lestrade, quite unused to getting a compliment from the detective, stood there looking slightly puzzled.

"Sorry, but if you're expecting a hug…" drawled Sherlock, after a moment.

"No, this will do," said Lestrade, breaking into a smile as he finally accepted his hand and gave him a firm shake.

"Now, then, John," said Sherlock, before dropping his hand, "why don't you get the good inspector a drink?"

"Right away," he said.

"Oh, these do look delicious, John," said Sherlock, pausing to pick up a cracker with a shrimp upon it before heading out into the living room.

"Inspector," said Mrs. Hudson, "would you mind carrying this out into the living room for me?"

"I'd be happy to, Mrs. Hudson," he replied.

It took John just a moment to finish making the drink before he followed them into the living room. Lestrade was still holding the tray as Mrs. Hudson cleared a space for it on the desk. Sherlock was moving away from the couch, walking to the other side of the room. Molly was sitting on the couch with Toby beside her, the cat once more purring contentedly.

"Here's your drink," said John, handing it to Lestrade after he had set down the tray.

"Oh, thank you," he said.

He took a sip and then transferred the glass to his other hand as he approached the couch. Meanwhile, John took his usual armchair seat and Sherlock remained standing, casually leaning back against the fireplace mantle.

"So, this is the famous 'Toby'?" he said, holding out his hand to pet him.

"Oh, yes, you two haven't met yet have you? Toby this is-"

But she was interrupted as the cat suddenly laid back its ears and screeched, lashing out with his right paw at the detective's open hand.

" I'm so sorry," she said, looking embarrassed. "Oh, bad, naughty, Toby!" she scolded. "He's usually not like this," she protested to Lestrade.

"Of course not, dear, it's just being with all these strange people in a new place," commiserated Mrs. Hudson.

Lestrade nodded in understanding, but John noted that there was a long red streak on his hand where Toby's claws had made contact and he positioned himself on the arm of the couch rather than next to the cat.

But within a few minutes, everyone was laughing and talking again as they drank their drinks and began to partake in the excellent food. Both Molly and Mrs. Hudson laughed delightedly as Lestrade launched into a long, funny story about all the trouble he had run in to while disguising himself as a drunk and hiding on the park bench earlier that evening.

As the laughter grew, John wandered over to join Sherlock at the fireplace.

"Whatever happened to that empty catnip mouse?" he asked, whispering so as to not be overheard by the others.

"It's in Lestrade's coat pocket," answered Sherlock, smiling.

"Ah, thought so," said John nodding. "Managed to do that when you shook his hand, did you?"

Sherlock nodded.

"And had you rubbed it into your right hand before shaking hands with him as well?"

"Of course."

"And brought a shrimp out in your _left _hand to feed Toby when you came out into the living room?"

"Are you trying to make a point, John?"

"That wasn't quite fair, was it?"

"Well, what's a married man like him doing hugging Molly like that anyway," fumed Sherlock, as he took another drink.

"He's only still married because you interrupted his final settlement hearing," John pointed out.

"John," said Sherlock, sternly, "you know that I despise cheating."

"Uh-huh," he said, stifling a laugh.

"But that doesn't mean I'm not extremely good at it," he added, catching Molly's eye and flashing a brilliant smile in her direction as he raised his glass in a toast.

She stopped to smile and return the gesture, and in the process managed to completely miss the punch line to Lestrade's story.

**The End**

Sherlock may have never begged for mercy in his life, but I'm not above begging for reviews.

Since you've made it all the way to the end of my story,_ please_ consider leaving a review if you haven't already done so!


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